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ALIFORNIA      y 


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" Dulce  est  periculiim" 


SELECTIONS 

FROM 

THE  HARVARD  ADVOCATE 
1906— 1 916 

THE  FIFTY  YEiVR  BOOK 


"The  centuries  fade,  like  a  mist  from  the  glass; 
We  are  gone — why  we  know  not,  nor  where; 
Yet  as  ever  we  wearily  halt  as  we  pass. 
We  behold  thee,  still  young  and  still  fair." 
Ode  to  Harvard 
Lloyd  McKim  Garrison,  '88,  Advocate 


^^  Veritas  nihil  veretur^^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 


^' Manche  liehe  Schatten  steigen  auf'^  H  33^ 

In  1876,  in  1886,  in  1896,  and  in  1906,  like  books  "'^^'^^-^ 
were  printed.  The  first  was  supervised  by  Charles 
Eliot  Norton ;  the  last  by  Thomas  Tileston  Bald- 
win, the  best  friend  of  the  Advocate.  It  is  a  com- 
fort that  the  compiler  of  this  book  has  assisted  in 
making  the  selections  for  five  books. 

If  one  seeks  a  monument  to  the  little  old  paper, 
let  him  look  about  in  the  list  of  young  writers,  and 
see  how  many  of  them  became  famous.  No  well  of 
English  undefiled  is  wasted,  no  matter  how  small 
its  output.  Chumming  with  such  fellows  is  the 
charm  of  four  years  at  Harvard.  To  have  lived 
with  fifty  boards  of  editors  through  the  last  half 
century  has  been  a  privilege ! 

Frederick  W.  Loring,  Advocate  '70,  TVTote : 

"  Dear  friend,  pray  God  preserve  our  youth, 
And  grant  that  we  may  e'er  remember. 

"  In  years  to  come,  we  '11  form  new  ties. 
Yet  leave  the  old  unbroken, 
When  to  our  children's  lips  arise 

The  words  that  we  before  have  spoken. 

"  Nor  need  we  ever  fear  to  see 

Death  come,  this  knot  to  sever ; 
A  college  friendship  !    It  shall  be 

For  life,  dear  comrade,  and  forever." 

Frequently  sons  of  old  editors  have  become  editors 
in  their  turn.  Three  generations  of  editors  in  the 
same  family  may  shortly  be  the  rule.  In  the  words 
of  Roosevelt,  Advocate  '80,  in  this  book,  ''Let  us  not 
be  unprepared."     Let  us  dedicate  this  book: 

To  the  Third  Generation  of  Advocate  Editors. 

W.  G.  P. 


533 


The  Advocate  owes  thanks  to  Percy  A.  Hutchin- 
son, '98,  Hermann  Hagedorn,  '07,  Reuel  W.  Beach, 
'06,  Philip  W.  Thayer,  '14,  William  Gary  Sanger, 
'16,  and  Robert  N.  Cram,  '17,  for  their  assistance 
in  making  this  book,  as  well  as  for  other  good 
service. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I  — FAIR  HARVARD 

PAGE 

Harvard  and  Preparedness 3 

Theodore  Roosevelt,  '80. 
A  Plea  for  Personality  in  Professors 6 

Charles  Warren,  '8g. 
ALiiA  JMater 15 

Witter  Bynner,  '02. 
Editorials 15 

E.  B.  Sheldon,  '08. 
Professionalized  Scholarship 19 

G.  W.  Gray,  '12. 
Leadership  of  the  Intellectual  rather  than  the 
Athletic 22 

Robert  Walston  Chubb,  ^15. 
The  "Advocate":    Forty-Flve  Years  After   ...       37 

W.  G.  Feckham,  '6y. 
William  James 40 

Percy  Adams  Hutchinson,  'g8. 
The  Fifty- Year  Class      41 

IF.  G.  Peckham,  '67. 
"Holworthy,  H'y" 42 

Thorvald  S.  Ross,  ^12. 
Father's  Soliloquy 43 

H.  W.  H.  Poii'd,  Jr.,  'og. 
In  Memoriam  P.  H 44 

H.  W.  H.  Poivel,  Jr.,  '09. 
The  Game     45 

K.  B.  Murdoch,  '16. 
"Hello" 46 

P.  J.  Roosevelt,  '13. 
Ballade  of  Harvard  Square 46 

W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernandez,  ^10. 
Ballade  of  Christmas  Vacation 47 

IF.  G.  Tinckom-Fernatulez,  '10. 
Voices  in  the  Fall 48 

W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernatidez ,  ^10. 
The  Market  Place 49 

Robert  Emmons  Rogers,  'op. 
From  an  Ode  to  Harvard 50 

Witter  Bynner,  '02. 

V 


PAGE 

If  I  Were  a  Freshman 51 

Richard  Washburn  Child,  ^02. 
Harvard  axd  the  Nation 55 

Jerome  D.  Greefie,  'g6. 


PART  II  — HUMOR 

The  "Monthly"  to  the  "Advocate" 67 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  '07. 
The  Wrong  Scent     69 

Arthur  Train,  'g6. 
The  Maverick 73 

Richard  J.  Walsh,  '07. 
An  International  Affair 73 

E.  B.  Sheldon,  '08. 

Down  by  the  Stream 79 

F.  Schenck,  'og. 

A  Romance  in  Red 87 

F.  Schenck,  'og. 
The  Murderer 92 

C.  P.  Aiken,  '11. 
Vignette 97 

Wm.  C.  Greene,  '11. 
The  Blind  Beggar 98 

Wm.  C.  Greene,  '11. 
Arcadian  Sketches 98 

P.  R.  Mechem,  'i^. 
The  Case  of  Clara 100 

P.  R.  Mechem,  '15. 
Song 105 

A.  Gregg,  '11. 
Mary  —  Not  Marie 105 

Lithgow  Osborne,  '15. 
Advice  to  Poets 112 

H.  Poivel,  'og. 
A  Freshman  Beer-Night 113 

W.  Goodwin,  '07. 
Spring 116 

James  L.  Pennypacker,  '80. 
The  Beauty  in  the  Second  Row 117 

W.  K.  Post,  'go. 
How  the  Professor  made  Both  Ends  Meet    ...     128 

E.  L.  McKinney,  '12. 
The  Ex-President  of  the  Russian  Republic  .   .   .     130 

Robert  Cutler,  '16. 
The  Dreamer  of  the  Mountains 137 

T.  Tileston  Baldwiti,  Jr.,  '12. 

vi 


PAGE 

The  Pickle  of  the  Past ^39 

H.  A.  Bellows,  '06. 
Castles  in  the  Air ^4° 

Scofield  Thayer,  '13. 
On  the  Decoration  of  College  Rooms 141 

R.  J.  Walsh,  '07. 
Dollars     ^44 

W.  L.  Prosser,  '18. 
The  Fourth  Case ^4» 

A.S.Pier,'9S' 

PART  III  — ADVENTURE 

Pieces  of  the  GAiiE ^"5 

P.  A.  Hutchinson,  '98. 
Quatrain ^  ^ 

P.  A.  Hutchinson,  ^98. 
From  the  Class  Poem  •   •    •  ^ ^°^ 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  ^07. 
Morning , ^°^ 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  oy. 
Dryad  King     ^ ^^7 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  '07. 
When  the  Shadow  Falls 1°^ 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  '07. 
To  TORQUATUS      ^"9 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  '10. 
The  Blind  Angel ^7° 

C.  P.  Aiken,  '11. 
The  Warrior's  Pr.\yer ^7i 

W.A.Norris,'j8. 
The  Summons   .   . -^^^ 

Wilder  Goodwin,  ^07. 
The  Lark ^^^ 

F.  Biddle,  'op. 
After  Defeat ^' 

F.  Biddle,  '09. 
Iseult        

H ceroid  W.  Bell,  '07. 
La  Gioconda ^'^ 

Harold  W.  Bell,  '07. 
Phedre -^ 

R.J.  Walsh, '07. 
In  the  Forest '^ 

Claude  C.  Washburn,  'oj. 
The  Explorer ^'^ 

R.  J.  Walsh,  '07. 

vii 


PAGE 

At  Sea 175 

Joseph  Husband,  'g8. 
Salvage 176 

Wilder  Goodwin,  ^oj. 
GoTT  Mix  Uns     . 176 

C.  //.  Jacobs,  ^16. 
Little  Coat-Tails 177 

R.  P.  Utter,  'g8. 
Tripoli 184 

F.  L.  Allen,  '12. 
ETrea  TLTipoivra  —  WiRELESS  MESSAGES 1 85 

C.  P.  Aiken,  'ii. 
The  Recluse 186 

Rudolph  AUrocchi,  '08. 
Prayer 187 

Henry  Gary,  '00, 
Their  Lot 187 

/.  Gazzam,  '17. 
By  the  Flare  of  the  Northern  Lights 188 

W.  G.  Sanger,  Jr.,  '16. 
Children's  Land 189 

W.  G.  Sanger,  Jr.,  '16. 
The  Jap  Doll 190 

R.  N.  Gram,  '17. 
Worlds  in  the  Making 191 

W.  G.  Sanger,  Jr.,  '16. 
The  Dance 192 

R.  N.  Gram,  ^17. 
Pro  Defensio  ^Esthetico 192 

S.  L.  M.  Barlow,  '14. 
The  Sea  Cable 195 

/.  Gordon  Gilkey,  '12. 
The  Wind's  Way 196 

H.  E.  Porter,  'op. 
Castles  in  Spain 197 

A.  F.  Leffingwell,  'j6. 
Determination 198 

R.  M.  Jopling,  '16. 
Diana 198 

A .  F.  Leffingwell,  '16. 
Class  Poem 199 

Swinburne  Hale,  '05. 
The  Sea  Gull      200 

/.  S.  Reed,  '10. 
Class  Poem 200 

Amos  Philip  McMahon,  'ij. 

viii 


PAGE 

Baccalaureate  Hymn 203 

Lionel  de  Jersey  Harvard,  '15. 
Over  the  Downs 204 

W.  Willcox,  Jr.,  '17. 
The  Awakening 205 

B.  P.  Clark,  Jr.,  '16. 
An  Ultimatum  of  Nature 205 

Richard  Washburn  Child,  'oj. 
In  the  Grand  Canyon 208 

Harry  R.  Peterson,  'ij. 
In  a  Boat  Cabin 208 

Harry  R.  Peterson,  '13. 
The  Adventures  of  the  Harvard  Man 209 

K.  B.  Toumsend,  '08. 
A  Vision  of  the  Sea 211 

/.  AI.  Moore,  '11. 
Honor 212 

/.  M.  Moore,  '11. 
The  West  Today 212 

/.  M.  Moore,  '11. 
On  a  Birthday 213 

/.  M.  Moore,  '11. 
Babylon 214 

George  W.  Gray,  '12. 
A  Litany 215 

Harold  Trowbridge  Pulsifer,  ^11. 
The  Acolyte 216 

Harold  Trowbridge  Pulsifer,  '11. 

USQUEQUO  DOMINE? 217 

Van  Wyck  Brooks,  '08. 
Lectures 217 

A.  Page,  '05. 
The  Dramatist  as  Citizen 220 

Percy  Mackeye,  'gj. 

PART  IV  — LOVE 

War  in  Flanders 233 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  'oj. 
Jealousy 233 

H.  T.  P.,  '00. 
The  Crafty  ]Mrs.  Carton 233 

E.  B.  Sheldon,  '08. 
"Poverty  is  no  Sin,  But  Twice  as  Bad"     ....     241 

W.  R.  Castle,  Jr.,  '00. 
Poppies 254 

George  W.  Gray,  '12. 

ix 


PAGE 
TiNTAGEL 258 

D.  MacVeagh,  'ij. 
The  Player 259 

George  W.  Gray,  '12. 
Old  Love  or  New? 259 

/.  Hinckley,  '06. 
Sonnet 260 

P.  W.  Thayer,  '14. 
The  Burmese  Sculptor 261 

Conrad  Aiken,  '11. 
Friends 261 

H.  Nickerson,  'ji. 
Dawn  in  the  City     261 

John  Hall  Wheelock,  '08. 
Humanities 263 

Van  Wyck  Brooks,  '08. 
Vistas     263 

John  Hall  Wheelock,  '08. 
A  Thought 264 

F.  B.  Thiving,  'ij. 
Ibi  Requiescat 264 

F.  B.  Thwing,  '13. 
Without  Rhyme 264 

T.  J.  Putnam,  '15. 
The  Kentish  Sailor 265 

D.  L.  MacVeagh,  ^13. 
The  Charles  at  Night 266 

H.  C.  Greene,  '14. 
The  Maiden  and  the  Meadow 267 

/.  A.  Macy,  'gg. 
Chanson  du  Crepuscule      267 

W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernandez,  '10. 
Serenade 269 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  Jr.,  ^oy. 
Chimes 269 

S.  Ervin,  '08. 
Establishing  a  Motive 270 

F.  C.  Nelson,  '16. 
As  You  (Won't)  Like  It     275 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  '10. 
Dawn 276 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  '10. 

I  TOO  HAVE  been  IN  ArCADY 277 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  'lo. 
Jean 277 

Alfred  Putnam,  '18, 
In  Memory 278 

M,  F.  Talbot,  '16. 

X 


PAGE 

The  Close  of  Mass 279 

John  H.  Wheelock,  '08. 
A  Murderer 280 

Sonnet 281 

Frank  Dazey,  '14. 
The  Man  who  Pah) 281 

F.  H.  Dazey,  '14. 
Consolation     282 

R.  MacVeagh,  '10. 
Sonnet 283 

Harold  W.  Bell,  '07. 
La  Esmeralda 283 

E.  L.  McKinney,  '12. 
In  the  Dato's  Harem 284 

L.  Wood,  Jr., '16. 
"Advice  to  the  Lovelorn" 291 

A.  W.  H.  Powel,  '09. 


XI 


PART  I 
FAIR  HARVARD 


"OHan-ard  CoHege! 

America  has  need  of  you.     0  let  your  might 
Become  her  captain  and  her  strong  delight. 
O  Kft  forever  on  the  shield  of  Truth 

Before  the  armies  of  mortahty, 
The  sounding  challenge  of  the  spear  of  youth  ! " 
Witter  Byxxer,  '02,  Advocate. 


HARVARD  AND   PREPAREDNESS 

Harvard  ought  to  take  the  lead  in  every  real 
movement  for  making  our  country  stand  as  it  should 
stand.  Unfortunately,  prominent  Harvard  men 
sometimes  take  the  lead  the  wrong  way.  This  ap- 
plies preeminently  to  all  Harvard  men  who  have 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  absurd  and  mischievous 
professional-pacificist  or  peace-at-any-price  move- 
ments which  have  so  thoroughly  discredited  this 
country  during  the  past  five  years.  These  men  are 
seeking  to  chinafy  the  country;  and,  so  far  as  they 
have  any  influence,  they  are  tending  to  chinafy 
Harvard  too.  The  pacificist  of  this  type  stands  on 
an  exact  level  with  the  poltroon.  His  appropriate 
place  is  vdth  the  college  sissy  who  disapproves  of 
football  or  boxing  because  it  is  rough. 

In  all  our  history  there  have  been  few  movements 
more  detrimental  to  our  people  and  no  movement 
more  essentially  ignoble  than  the  professional  pa- 
cificist or  peace-at-any-price  movement  which  has 
reached  its  zenith  during  the  past  five  years.  This 
movement  became  part  of  our  official  governmental 
policy  when  five  years  ago  the  effort  was  made  to 
adopt  the  all-inclusive  arbitration  treaties  under 
which  we  covenanted  to  arbitrate  questions  of 
national  honor  and  vital  interest  (specifically,  this 
means  questions  such  as  the  murder  of  American 
men,  women  and  children  on  the  high  seas  and  the 
rape  of  American  women,  for  instance).  A  couple 
of  years  ago  we  actually  adopted  certain  ludicrous 
arbitration  or  commission-for-a-year's-investigation 
treaties  which,  when  the  proposal  was  made  to 


reduce  them  to  practice,  were  instantly  repudiated 
by  the  very  administration  that  had  made  them. 
Much  harm  has  been  done  to  America  by  crooked 
poUticians  and  by  crooked  business  men;  but  they 
have  never  done  as  much  harm  as  these  professional 
pacificists  have  sought  to  do  and  have  partially  suc- 
ceeded in  doing.  They  have  weakened  the  moral 
fiber  of  our  people.  They  have  preached  base  and 
ignoble  doctrines  to  this  nation.  For  five  years  they 
have  succeeded  in  tainting  our  foreign  policy  with 
mean  hypocrisy. 

I  abhor  wanton  or  unjust  war.  I  believe  with  all 
my  heart  in  peace,  if  peace  can  be  obtained  on 
terms  compatible  with  self-respect.  Even  a  neces- 
sary war  I  regard  as  a  lamentable  necessity.  But 
it  may  be  a  necessity.  It  may  be  a  necessity  in 
order  to  save  our  bodies.  It  may  be  a  necessity 
in  order  to  save  our  souls.  A  high-minded  man  or 
woman  does  not  regard  death  as  the  most  dreadful 
of  all  things,  because  there  are  some  things  worse 
than  death.  A  high-minded  nation  does  not  regard 
war  as  the  most  dreadful  of  all  things,  because  there 
are  some  things  worse  than  war. 

Recently  there  have  actually  been  political  but- 
tons circulated  in  this  country  with  *' safety  first" 
as  the  motto  upon  them  in  the  fancied  interest  of 
one  of  the  party  candidates  for  the  Presidency  next 
year.  This  is  the  motto  which  in  practice  is  acted 
upon  by  the  men  on  a  sinking  ship  who  jump  into 
the  lifeboats  ahead  of  the  women  and  children. 
Even  these  men,  however,  do  not,  when  they  get 
ashore,  wear  buttons  to  commemorate  their  feat. 

This  country  needs  to  prepare  itself  materially 
against  war.  Even  more  it  needs  to  prepare  itself 
spiritually  and  morally,  so  that,  if  war  must  be  ac- 
cepted as  the  alternative  to  dishonor  or  unright- 
eousness, it  shall  be  accepted  with  stern  readiness  to 
do  any  duty  and  incur  any  hazard  that  the  times 
demand.     It  would  be  well  if  Harvard  would  es- 


tablisli  as  part  of  its  curriculiun  an  efficient  system 
of  thorough  military  training  —  not  merely  military 
drill,  -vThich  is  only  a  part  of  military  training,  and 
indeed  a  small  part,  I  believe  heartily  in  athletics; 
but  from  the  physical  and  moral  standpoint  such  a 
system  of  military  training  would  be  better  for  all 
the  men  in  Harv-ard  and  would  reach  far  more  men 
than  are  now  reached  by  athletics. 

In  addition,  however,  to  such  military  training, 
and  even  if  at  present  it  proves  impossible  to  get 
such  military  training,  let  Harvard  men,  graduates 
and  undergraduates  alike,  start  at  once  to  practice 
and  to  preach  that  efficient  morality  which  stands 
at  the  opposite  pole  from  the  milk-and-water  doc- 
trines of  the  professional  pacificists.    Remember  that 
sentimentality  is  as  directly  the  reverse  of  senti- 
ment as  bathos  is  of  pathos.    It  is  right  and  emi- 
nently necessary  to  be  practical;    it  is  right  and 
eminently  necessary  to  take  care  of  our  own  for- 
tunes, of  our  own  bodies.     Each  man  must  do  it 
in di\d dually;   and  the  nation  must  do  it  in  its  cor- 
porate capacity,  acting  for  all  of  us.    But  in  addi- 
tion, both  men  and  nation  must  have  the  power  of 
fealty  to  a  lofty  ideal.    No  man  is  worth  his  salt 
who  is  not  ready  at  all  times  to  risk  his  body,  to 
risk  his  well-being,  to  risk  his  life,  in  a  great  cause. 
No  nation  has  a  right  to  a  place  in  the  world  unless 
it  has  so  trained  its  sons  and  daughters  that  they 
foUow  righteousness  as  the  great  goal.    They  must 
scorn  to  do  injustice,  and  scorn  to  submit  to  in- 
justice.    They   must   endeavor   steadily   to   make 
peace  the  handmaiden  of  righteousness,  to  secure 
both   peace    and   righteousness.      But    they"   must 
stand  ready,  if  the  alternative  is  between  peace  and 
righteousness,  unhesitatingly  to  face  suffering  and 
death  in  war  rather  than  to  submit  to  iniquity  or 
dishonor. 

Theodore  Roosevelt,  '8o. 


A  PLEA  FOR  PERSONALITY  IN  PROFESSORS 

{Advocate  Prize  Essay) 

John  Eliot,  writing  to  old  Jeremy  Belknap,  the 
historian-clergyman,  July  31,  1781,  said:  *^01d 
Mother  Harvard  is  a  good  old  dame  enough  and 
will  nourish  many  likely  children  who  are  yet  to 
come." 

Notwithstanding  this  optimism  of  one  hundred 
and  thirty  years  ago,  still  paralleled  in  many  a  pres- 
ent-day expression,  there  are  certain  conditions  at 
Harv^ard  College  today,  which  may  very  seriously 
affect  the  character  of  its  future  human  product. 
The  real  need  of  Harvard  College  today  is  not  more 
students,  more  funds,  more  buildings,  or  more  pro- 
fessors. Its  true  need  is  mors  great  men  as  pro- 
fessors. 

The  man  who  best  serves  the  college  is  not  he 
who  has  large  knowledge  to  impart,  but  he  who  can 
impart  knowledge  in  a  large  way. 

The  real  worth  of  the  college  to  the  young  men 
whom  it  sends  forth  will,  in  the  long  run,  depend 
not  on  what  or  on  how  much  it  teaches,  but  on  koiu 
it  teaches. 

The  vitality  of  its  teaching  will  depend  upon  the 
vitality  of  its  teachers. 

A  professor  may  be  a  fountain-head  of  learning; 
he  may  be  a  capable  conductor  of  a  full  stream  of 
knowledge;  yet  he  will  not  be  a  true  educator  un- 
less his  stream  shall  carry  the  electric  current  of  a 
powerfully  live  individuality. 

Education  without  inspiration  is  a  semi-dead 
thing. 

There  is  a  gromng  belief  today  among  Harvard 
graduates  that  this  side  of  the  educational  problem 
is  being  neglected  by  the  Harvard  Corporation;  and 
the  question  is  frequently  asked:   How  often  does 

6 


the  Corporation  today,  in  selecting  a  professor,  lay 
the  stress  on  the  personality  of  the  waw,  rather  than 
on  the  profundity  of  the  pedagogue?  Many  grad- 
uates believe  that  the  Corporation  would  do  well, 
in  choosing  professors,  to  bear  more  constantly  in 
mind  the  words  of  Senator  George  F.  Hoar  in  his 
Autobiography  of  Seventy  Years: 

"Making  all  the  allowance  for  the  point  of  view, 
and  that  I  was  then  a  youth  looking  at  my  elders 
who  had  become  famous,  and  that  I  am  now  look- 
ing, as  an  old  man,  at  young  men,  I  still  think  that 
there  can  be  no  comparison  betw^een  the  college 
administrators  of  fifty  years  ago  and  those  of  today. 
It  was  then  the  poHcy  of  the  college  to  call  into  its 
service  great  men  who  had  achieved  eminent  dis- 
tinction in  the  world  'without.  .  .  .  There  v/as  some- 
thing in  the  college  training  of  that  day,  imperfect 
as  were  its  instruments  and  slender  as  were  its  re- 
sources, from  which  more  intellectual  strength  in 
the  people  was  begotten  than  there  is  in  the  college 
training  of  the  present  generation.  I  will  not  under- 
take to  account  for  it;  but  I  think  it  was  due  in 
large  part  to  the  personality  of  the  instructors.  A 
youth  who  contemplated  with  a  near  and  intimate 
knowledge  the  large  manhood  of  Josiah  Quincy; 
who  listened  to  the  eloquence  of  James  Walker  or 
heard  his  expositions  of  the  principal  systems  of 
ethics  or  metaphysics;  or  who  sat  at  the  feet  of 
Judge  Story  as  he  poured  forth  the  lessons  of  juris- 
prudence in  a  clear  and  inexhaustible  stream,  — 
caught  an  inspiration  w^hich  transfigured  the  very 
soul  of  the  pupil." 

The  modern  instructor  has  a  passion  for  exact 
learning.  His  aim  is  to  communicate  a  similar  ardor 
to  his  pupils.  Without  personality,  however,  his 
efforts  are  pitiably  vain.  The  average  instructor 
needs  sorely  to  learn  a  few  of  the  fundamentals  of 
personal  influence.  First,  he  needs  to  learn  that  it 
is  not  absolutely  necessary  to  be  dull  in  order  to  be 


accurate.  Second,  he  should  pjrasp  the  fact  that  it 
is  not  necessary  to  lose  all  sense  of  humor  in  order 
to  be  learned.  Someone  has  said  that  the  most 
valuable  asset  for  a  reformer  is  a  twinkle  in  the  eye. 
Such  an  ocular  variation  is  equally  necessary  to  the 
man  who  wishes  to  educate  young  men.  Third,  in 
order  to  be  truly  scientific,  a  scientist  must  be  an 
artist;  he  must  have  an  eye  to  the  beauty  of  knowl- 
edge and  a  tongue  or  pen  to  express  that  beauty. 
Fourth,  the  educator  must  realize  that  in  order  to 
impart  knowledge  it  is  not  necessary  to  standardize 
the  learners;  he  must  recognize  that  every  under- 
graduate is  an  individual,  even  though  of  a  most  em- 
bryonic type.  Fifth,  above  all,  he  must  at  all  times 
recall  that  he  himself  is  a  warm,  red-blooded  mam- 
mal. He  must  not  confuse  education  with  iso- 
lation. He  must  at  all  times  be  a  human  being, 
teaching  human  beings.  He  must,  in  the  words  of 
Phillips  Brooks,  be  a  man  ''growing  in  broader  sym- 
pathy with  men  the  longer  that  he  does  his  special 
work." 

The  great  majority  of  undergraduates  are  in 
college  not  so  much  to  acquire  specific  knowledge  as 
to  become  well-rounded  men.  The  college  will  be 
judged  in  the  outside  world  not  so  much  by  the 
degree  of  learning  of  its  graduates  as  by  the  kind 
and  character  of  men  it  sends  forth.  The  college 
must  lay  the  foundation  of  character;  the  graduate 
schools  can  add  the  superstructure  of  practical 
knowledge.  No  professor,  however,  can  aid  in 
building  character  unless  he  himself  has  a  strong 
personality. 

There  is  nothing  for  which  the  conventional  youth 
of  twenty,  whose  ideas  are  mostly  another  man's, 
really  craves  as  for  individuality.  Lacking  it  him- 
self, he  seeks  it  in  his  teachers.  A  teacher  who  can- 
not impress  his  students  with  his  own  individuality 
will  leave  an  evanescent  impress  of  any  kind.  A 
true  teacher  gives  to  his  pupils  not  only  his  learning, 

8 


but  also  himself.     It  is  the  human  quality  of  the 
gift,  not  the  didactic,  that  is  of  value. 

Xow,  as  no  element  of  personality  is  of  greater 
effect  or  of  more  constant  necessity  than  that  of 
human  s>Tnpathy,  the  possession  of  that  attribute 
ought  to  be  the  leading  determining  factor  in  the 
choice  of  a  professor  by  the  Corporation.  There  is 
a  grave  question  today,  however,  whether  it  is  given 
much  consideration,  or  whether  it  is  allowed  to  out- 
weigh the  possession  of  superior  learning  by  another 
candidate. 

Yet  it  is  no  curious  coincidence  that  five  great 
Harv^ard  professors  —  great  not  merely  because  of 
their  learning,  but  because  of  the  lasting  impress  they 
made  on  their  students  —  should  have  had  this 
one  great  characteristic  —  human  sympathy.  It 
happens  that  these  five  men,  of  most  varied  talents 
and  personalities,  have  all  been  described  by  con- 
temporaries in  the  Harvard  Graduates  Magazine 
during  the  past  few  years;  and  it  is  well  worth 
the  while  of  the  present  Harvard  Corporation  to 
ponder  deeply  on  the  relation  between  the  quali- 
ties described  in  the  foUo-^ing  extracts  and  the 
deep  influence  which  these  men  had  upon  their 
pupils. 

Of  Nathaniel  S.  Shaler,  it  was  -^Titten  by  William 
R.  Thayer  in  1906: 

"It  was  as  a  lecturer  and  as  a  friend  that  he  stirred 
their  interest  and  kindled  their  admiration  and 
affection.  ,  .  .  Indeed  his  genius  for  meeting  every- 
one on  equal  terms  was  astonishing.  It  sprang  from 
his  inmost  nature  —  a  nature  democratic  and  sim- 
ple. .  .  .  By  his  talents  and  his  ceaseless  industry, 
wedded  to  a  large,  magnetic  nature,  he  showed  that 
the  calling  of  a  imiversity  professor  has  the  noblest 
possibilities;  he  humanized  it. 

''Learning,  after  all,  may  be  acquired;  but  genial- 
ity, -^it,  the  electric  flash  of  insight,  sympathy,  are 
divine  gifts." 


Of  Francis  J.  Child,  Professor  Norton  wrote  in 
1897: 

''His  nature  was  sweet  and  pure  to  the  core,  and 
in  his  relation  with  men  there  was  something  more 
than  mere  common  kindliness  and  consideration  — 
a  certain  quality  of  tender  and  genial  humanity. 
.  .  .  He  preserved  the  strongly  marked  and  alto- 
gether delightful  originality  of  his  nature  from  the 
pressure  and  attrition  of  the  world  which  speedily 
wear  down  the  marks  of  distinctive  individuality 
and  shape  the  mass  of  men  into  a  general  dull  uni- 
formity. ...  A  master  of  most  accurate  and  ex- 
tensive learning,  a  scholar  of  unwearied  diligence  and 
exact  method,  he  possessed  the  faculties  and  sym- 
pathies which  enabled  him  to  impart  his  learning  to 
his  pupils  and  to  inspire  in  the  more  capable  among 
them  something  of  his  own  enthusiasm  for  the  best 
in  literature  and  hfe." 

Of  Louis  Agassiz  as  a  teacher,  Burt  G.  Wilder 
wrote  in  1906: 

"Indeed,  the  secret  of  his  great  power  was  to  be 
found  in  the  sympathetic,  human  side  of  his  char- 
acter. Out  of  his  broad  humanity  grew  the  genial 
personal  influence  by  which  he  awakened  the  en- 
thusiasm of  his  audiences  for  his  unwonted  themes, 
inspired  his  students  to  disinterested  service." 

Of  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  Professor  Palmer  wrote 
in  1907  of  his  "disciplined  judgment  and  sympa- 
thetic heart."  .  .  .  "LFnder  Professsor  Shaler  the 
student  gained  a  kindling  vision  of  pretty  much  all 
the  natural  world;  under  Professor  Norton  of  the 
human.  In  these  two  culture  courses,  the  speaker 
gave  so  much  that  there  was  little  left  for  the 
hearer  to  do  except  to  wonder,  to  enjoy,  and  to 
grow." 

And  Professor  BHss  Perry  wrote  of  "the  breadth 
of  his  personal  and  intellectual  sympathies,  and  his 
known  constancy  to  all  the  ofiices  and  loyalties  of 
friendship." 

10 


Of  James  IMills  Peirce,  W,  E,  Byerly  wrote  in 
1905: 

"To  his  students,  he  was  ever  a  sympathetic 
friend,  patient  and  helpful,  generous  and  inspiring. 
To  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  deeply  interested  in 
the  young  men  around  him,  understanding  and  sym- 
pathizing with  their  tastes,  their  aspirations  and 
their  struggles,  as  if  he  were  one  of  them.  .  .  .  His 
ready  interest  in  everything  human,  and  his  keen  en- 
joyment of  life,  made  him  the  most  charming  of 
comp?mions." 

Let  the  Harvard  Corporation  ask  any  man  of  the 
'8o's  or  *9o's  what  are  the  lasting  memories,  the 
real  instruction  which  he  carried  away  from  Har- 
vard, and  the  chances  are  that  the  answer  will  be  as 
follows:  "I  remember  the  great  human  quaHties  of 
Shaler  and  his  broad  \iews  of  the  world.  I  remem- 
ber the  charm  and  sympathy  of  Norton  and  his 
views  of  humane  culture  (much  of  which  I  then  dis- 
agreed vA\h).  I  remember  the  helpful,  practical 
philosophy  oi  Palmer.  On  the  other  hand,  I  don't 
remember  anything  about  the  details  of  the  geology 
that  Shaler  taught,  or  of  the  Gredan  or  Renaissance 
art  or  architecture  that  Norton  taught,  or  of  the 
particular  sermons  and  religious  teachings  that 
E rooks  tried  to  instill  into  us,  or  of  the  philosophic 
■concepts  upon  which  Palmer  lectured  with  such 
care.  Moreover,  I  don^t  remember  one  out  of  ten 
thousand  of  the  historical  and  economic  facts,  of  the 
mathematical  chemical  formulas,  or  of  the  Latin 
or  Greek  construction  that  I  spent  so  many  weary 
hours  learning  from  able  and  learned  but  uninspired 
instructors  and  professors." 

Furthermore,  that  man  of  the  '8o's  or  '90's  -^ili 
go  on  to  tell  the  Harvard  Corporation  that  he  re- 
gards all  the  myriads  of  things  forgotten,  as  well 
forgottsi;  and  that  the  real  vital  things  in  his  whole 
college  course  were  the  large  impressions,  the 
glimpses  of  ^dstas  of  hinnan  inspiration  —  the  in- 


ii 


spiratfon,  as  Senator  Hoar  said,  "which  transfigured 
the  very  soul  of  the  pupil." 

I  knew  one  Harvard  graduate  (now  dead)  who 
dates  his  first  impulse  to\\^rd  finding  himself  to 
an  examination  paper  set  hy  Professor  Norton  — 
on  which  paper  there  w^re  twelve  questions  on  dry 
details  of  the  history  of  the  architecture  of  the  Middle 
Ages^  and  one  question  which  read  as  follows: 
*'What  is  your  idea  of  beauty?"  This  particular 
student  started  to  answer  this  question  in  a  semi- 
jocose  vein,  was  gradually  startled  to  find  that  he  was 
discovering  in  his  own  brain  thoughts  of  the  exist- 
ence of  which  he  had  not  dreamed,  ended  by  con- 
suming the  whole  examination  period  in  answering 
this  one  question,  omitted  all  the  other  twelve  ques- 
tions, left  the  room  feeling  that  he  had  everlastingly 
flunked  —  and  received  the  shock  of  Ms  young  life 
when  Professor  Norton  aw^arded  him  the  highest 
mark  in  the  course. 

In  the  same  way  Professor  Shaler  not  only 
revealed  to  a  student  the  world  but  he  also  fre- 
quently revealed  to  the  student  the  student's  own 
self.  ^ 

It  is  to  be  seen,  therefore,  that  the  possession  of 
human  sympathies  is  a  cardinal  necessity  in  a  pro- 
fessor or  educator;  for  it  is  through  sympathy  that 
the  personality  of  the  student  is  brought  out  wliich 
constitutes  education,  actually  as  well  as  deriva- 
tively. 

And  this  leads  to  the  thought  of  the  second  great 
quality  which  the  Corporation  should  look  for  in  its 
professors,  ahead  of  their  eminence  in  learning  — 
the  quality  of  leadership.  The  young  man  of  twenty 
longs  for  a  leader.  It  is  the  quality  of  leadership 
which  makes  the  athletic  hero;  even  more  is  it  that 
quality  which  constitutes  the  professor  a  living  in- 
fluence. But  to  be  a  leader,  a  man  must  be  of  the 
world  and  in  the  world  —  and  not  merely  the  prod- 
uct of  secluded  study-rooms. 

12 


In  these  days  of  specialists  in  every  branch  of 
knowledge,  when  the  writing  of  an  exhaustive  mono- 
graph on  the  details  of  a  subject  accompanied  by 
hundreds  of  footnotes  and  thousands  of  "authorities 
consulted"  is  the  goal  of  so  many  learned  instruc- 
tors, there  is  increasing  danger  of  overlooking  the 
broad  vistas,  in  order  to  peer  to  the  end  of  a  very 
obscure  street.  In  that  street  there  may  be  a  very 
absorbing  family  of  men,  or  an  entirely  fascinating 
geological  formation,  or  a  singularly  unique  mass  of 
classical  relics;  but  he  who  confines  his  attention  to 
it  win  not  only  not  know  or  understand,  but  will 
lose  the  capacity  to  understand  the  outside  world 
and  the  swarming  throngs  who  never  even  approach 
that  street. 

To  a  certain  extent  the  college  needs  these  lim- 
ited specialists;  the  graduate  schools  may  even 
thrive  on  them;  but  the  work  which  has  the  more 
profound  effect  on  human  beings  is  the  work  done 
by  the  instructor  who  not  only  knows  the  world  but 
is  himiself  a  part  of  it.  The  more  a  part  of  it  the 
instructor  has  been  —  the  more  a  leader  —  the 
greater  wiU  be  his  influence  over  those  who  are  burn- 
ing to  become  a  part  of  it.  The  college  needs  men 
who  have  achieved  in  the  world  and  not  merely  in 
their  speciality.  Nothing  inspires  the  young  man, 
ardent  for  success,  like  the  success  of  those  who  have 
gone  out  from  the  walls  within  which  he  is  still 
secluded.  In  other  words,  leadership  in  the  outside 
world  is  the  best  of  all  qualifications  for  leadership 
of  the  youth  in  college. 

It  is  im.possible,  for  instance,  to  estimate  the  pro- 
found effect  which  Harv'ard  produced  upon  the 
future  history  of  the  bar  of  this  country  when  she 
called,  to  instruct  her  graduates  in  the  Law  School, 
the  second  greatest  judge  of  the  United  States  Su- 
preme Court  of  the  period  —  Joseph  Story. 

Har\-ard  has  too  long  neglected  the  wonderful  list 
of  her  great  men.    She  has  bestowed  on  them  honor- 

13 


ary  degrees,  and  prided  herself  on  their  works  after 
their  death.  She  has  too  infrequently  paid  them  the 
greater  honor  of  insisting  that  they  should  impart 
a  portion  of  their  living  personality  to  her  under- 
graduate sons. 

Of  course  there  is  one  answer  to  the  plea  for  an 
increase  of  "leaders"  in  the  regular  teaching  faculty 
of  Harvard  —  that  it  is  difficult  to  induce  men  of 
eminence  in  active  careers  to  take  up  the  burden 
of  the  life  of  a  college  professor.  It  might  be  pos- 
sible, however,  for  the  Harvard  Corporation  to  se- 
cure their  service  for  limited  periods.  While  sporadic 
attempts  have  been  made  from  time  to  time  to  have 
single  lectures  or  a  short  course  of  lectures  given  by 
men  of  eminence,  there  has  been  no  systematic  ef- 
fort to  provide  full  courses  of  lectures  in  each  im- 
portant branch  of  learning  by  some  Harvard  leader 
in  that  branch  in  the  outside  world.  There  would 
seem  to  be  no  reason  why,  each  year,  some  successful 
historian,  chemist,  engineer,  author,  political  econ- 
omist, geologist,  architect,  artist,  electrical  expert, 
jurist,  and  classical  scholar  should  not  be  drafted  by 
the  Corporation  from  Harvard's  ''great  reserve" 
(as  it  has  been  termed),  each  for  a  full  course  of  lec- 
tures or  at  least  for  a  half-year  course,  requiring 
his  presence  in  Cambridge  and  among  the  students. 
The  devotion  or  contribution  of  this  amount  of  time 
and  effort  the  Alma  Mater  can  certainly  expect 
from  her  sons  who  have  achieved  success. 

If  the  question  of  expense  appears  to  be  an  ob- 
stacle to  this  plan,  the  college  should  go  back  to 
the  system  in  vogue  in  the  '40's  and  '50's,  when  the 
undergraduates  were  charged  a  special  fee,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  regular  yearly  tuition  fee,  for  the  privi- 
lege of  attending  such  courses. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  warm  enthusiasm 
with  which  the  opportunity  to  receive  the  impress 
of  such  men  would  be  welcomed  by  the  under- 
graduates.   There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  vitaliz- 

14 


ing  effect  of  such  courses  upon  the  general  scheme  of 
education. 

The  great  need  of  the  day  is  vitality  and  individu- 
ality as  a  corrective  to  the  standardizing  and  me- 
chanical tendencies,  not  only  in  halls  of  learning  but 
in  every  walk  of  life. 

The  Harvard  Corporation  can  do  no  greater  serv- 
ice to  the  nation  at  large  than  by  insisting  on  the 
attributes  of  human  s}TQpathy  and  \'igorous  per- 
sonaHty  in  its  professors,  even  though  to  obtain 
them  it  may  be  obliged  to  accept  a  less  degree  of 
superior  technical  proficiency. 

Charles  Warren,  '89. 


ALMA   MATER 

And  one  enlisted  for  my  land 
When  war  let  loose  the  sundering  flood; 
And  one  —  because  his  father's  blood 
Was  hot  in  him  —  let  go  my  hand. 

I  lost  them  both,  —  but  not  before 
I  kissed  them  both.    The  battle,  done, 
Defeated  one,  exalted  one  .  .  . 
Ask  me  not  which  I  love  the  more ! 

Witter  Bynner,  '02. 


EDITORL\LS 

Mr.  Ot\t:n  Wister's  recent  address,  delivered  at 
the  awarding  of  prizes  for  academic  distinction, 
raises  many  interesting  questions.  Our  enormous 
wheat  crop  as  opposed  to  our  hundred  per  cent  lack 
of  scholarship  —  a  contrast  startlingly  emiphasized 
by  Mr.  Wister  —  seems  destined  to  defy  oblivion. 
The  only  thing  is  —  why  come  to  college  at  all? 

IS 


Why  not  begin  immediately  to  achieve  practical 
success?  Of  course,  Mr.  Wister  says  that  our 
minds  are  trained  in  college  for  this  very  thing,  that 
we  emerge  from  the  academic  atmosphere  with 
every  qualification  for  increasing  the  wheat  crop. 
This  seems  at  first  a  rather  delightful  theory  — 
college  the  place  of  active  preparation  for  a  life  of 
material  achievement.  But  when  one  drops  theories 
and  examines  the  undergraduate  state  of  mind, 
the  result  is  apt  to  be  doubt  and  a  certain  unwil- 
lingness to  theorize  further. 

Instead  of  actively  working  toward  an  already 
settled  career,  the  average  undergraduate  is  not  at 
all  sure  what  he  means  to  do  with  his  life.  This 
fact  naturally  interferes  with  any  careful  preparation. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  decided  in  favor  of 
business  or  the  law,  he  takes,  if  conscientious,  a 
certain  number  of  economic,  history  courses,  etc. 
More  often  he  considers  that  the  professional  school 
offers  plenty  of  opportunities  for  professional  work, 
that  one  can  be  an  undergraduate  only  for  once, 
that ''  the  great  lessons  in  college  are  not  to  be  found 
in  books,"  and  —  on  the  whole,  wisely  —  separates 
utterly  his  selection  of  courses  from  the  choice  of 
his  future. 

Such  a  man  can  still  do  good  work,  can  make  his 
academic  training  of  the  highest  value  to  him,  no 
matter  what  he  takes  up  later.  He  may  believe  that 
college  is  a  place  to  broaden  one's  mind  as  much 
as  possible,  that  cultivation  should  be  the  result  of 
four  years'  residence  in  a  university.  His  success 
as  a  lawyer  will  not  diminish  if  he  is  fond  of  reading 
Moliere  and  Meredith  in  the  evening;  his  success  as 
a  human  being  will  greatly  increase. 

There  are,  however,  in  every  college  a  large  num- 
ber of  men  who  exist  academically  for  the  sole  reason 
of  enjoying  themselves.  This  may  be  done  in  many 
ways;  and  four  delightfully  careless  years  are  spent. 
Many  of  these  men  — in  fact  the  majority  — in- 

i6 


tend  to  do  things  after  they  leave  college,  and,  what 
is  more,  their  intentions  are  usually  fulfilled.  But 
the  obvious  question  is  again  —  why  come  to  col- 
lege at  all?  WTiy  not  secure  an  early  start  without 
an  apparently  useless  delay? 

They  may  answer  that  they  want  a  good  time 
before  they  settle  do^Ti  to  work.  This  is  stupid. 
No  one  ^ill  ever  believe  that  an  able-bodied,  in- 
teUigent  young  man  must  have  four  years  of  lazi- 
ness as  a  preparation  for  modern  American  life. 
They  may  repeat  the  before-quoted  remark  about 
"the  great  lessons  of  college  being  found  outside 
of  books."  By  "outside  of  books"  we  infer  they 
mean  in  men.  But  no  one  will  deny  that  the  out- 
side world  is  a  far  better  place  than  college  to  learn 
the  lessons  of  humanity. 

So  the  fact  remains  that  about  half  of  ever>^  under- 
graduate body  is  quite  absurdly  out  of  place.  It 
is  not  exactly  their  individual  fault  because,  un- 
fortunately, a  college  education  has  become  a  con- 
vention. Neither  does  it  reflect  on  their  ability  and 
importance  as  men;  it  merely  shows  they  are  not 
in  the  right  field  for  exhibiting  this  abihty  and 
importance. 

"And  there  you  are"  — as  Mr.  Henry  James  is 
fond  of  remarking. 

E.  B.  Sheldon,  'o8. 

Cedantque  arma  togce:  Place  for  the  Signet! 
Har\-ard  is  in  Cambridge,  not  in  Tipperary.  Har- 
vard's reno-^-n  is  as  a  literary  institution.  Harns 
grow  ^4de  in  Connecticut,  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania 
and  in  all  the  other  Old  Hollands  or  New  Hollands 
that  have  been  taken  by  the  Dutch;  and  these  are 
the  fundaments  of  certain  athletics.  The  winged 
cherubs  declined  the  seats  to  which  they  were  invited 
by  Saint  Cecilia.  How  rational,  for  an  intellectual 
t}TDe  of  person!  As  for  athletic  divinities,  we  have 
President  Eliot,  Major  Higginson  and  Charles  Eliot 

17 


Norton,  our  church  militant.  This  is  the  only 
secular  trinity  that  the  Advocate  gets  on  its  knees  to. 
It  is  admitted  that  C.  E.  Norton  has  all-round 
athletic  merits.  Harv^ard  is  entirely  assured  that 
President  Ehot  won  honor  and  glory  as  a  Varsity 
Stroke,  and  the  lines  of  the  Major's  dedication  of  the 
Soldier's  Field  are  the  thirty-nine  articles  of  our 
athletic  creed:  Honor  always;  victory,  maybe. 

Mr.  Heldinger,  the  celebrated  short  back,  is  prob- 
ably all  right.  Personally  he  has  the  Advocate's 
best  wishes,  and  vicariously  he  has  given  some  of 
our  money  to  his  opponents  —  all  that  our  Puritan 
principles  allowed  us  to  wager  on  his  success. 

Perhaps  the  illustrious  long  stop,  Mr.  Murphy, 
does  not  find  so  many  of  his  kind  with  us.  Rival 
institutions  of  learning  early  snatch  such  Gany- 
medes,  as  a  business;  have  often  robbed  even  the 
Prep.  School,  which  is  in  South  Boston,  of  its  most 
muscular  scholars. 

Murphy  and  Heldinger  are  chummy  fellows  and 
are  all  right.  They  are  honored  like  the  gods;  but 
are  they  really  in  our  line?  It  concerns  the  common- 
weal, interest  rei  publicce,  the  country  requires  and 
Harvard  requires,  that  Harvard  should  maintain  its 
primacy.  In  certain  athletics  the  primacy  is  based 
as  above  rather  than  on  the  upper  Harvard  qualities. 
The  cherubs  knew  they  had  not  the  lower  qualifications, 
and  said  so.  We  have  wandered  after  gods  strange 
to  us,  and  have  thereby  lost  caste  with  the  barbari- 
ans. There  is  a  noise  without:  ''It  is  the  god  Her- 
cules whom  Antony  loved.    He  now  leaves  him.''' 

Hercules  was  not  the  highest  god,  and  Jupiter 
let  himself  down  when  he  turned  himself  into  a  bull. 
Athleticism  should  not  be  our  favorite  schism.  We 
are  born  quality,  as  children  of  Mother  Harvard.  In 
our  youth  we  knew  Lowell  and  Longfellow;^  we 
walked  imperfectly  with  God  and  with  Francis  J. 
Child.  T.  Roosevelt,  O.  Wister,  J.  Fox,  P.  Mac- 
Kaye,  F.  Norris  and  a  multitude  like  them  and  our- 

i8 


selves  are  children  of  the  same  mother.  The  saints 
in  our  calendar  are  not  Heldinger  nor  Murphy,  but 
our  saints  are  Shakespeare  and  Dante  and  Komer 
and  Emerson  and  Parkman,  and  we  say  the  place 
for  the  Bowditches  is  with  the  stars;  and  the  martial 
heroes  on  our  rolls  are  Bob  Shaw  and  Charles 
Lowell.  We  are  clerks  to  the  Signet,  stray  offspring 
of  Walter  Scott  and  likewise  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  Edward  Hopkins,  Armiger? 
He  left  an  endowment  to  pay  each  year  for  awards 
to  students,  with  the  motto,  " Detur  Digniori.''  On 
that  principle:  Do  you  give  honor  and  glory  and 
your  suffrages  to  your  wdnning  champions.  As 
Annie  Hutchinson,  the  prophetess,  arranged  seven 
grades  in  her  kingdom  of  heaven,  so  in  your  kingdom 
of  Harvard,  do  you  place  the  sons  of  Harvard  in 
grades  according  as  they  are  born  of  John  Harvard 
in  the  spirit.  Place  brains  over  brawn,  and  wits  over 
buttocks. 

Every  Jack  that  is  son  to  John  Harvard,  born  or 
to  be  bom,  to  the  end  of  time,  takes  from  John  a 
valuable  estate;  but  he  holds  that  estate  on  a  tenure 
of  these  terms,  to  wit:  that  every  Jack  pay  a  grain 
of  courtesy  to  every  fellow^,  not  only  of  the  Heaven- 
born,  but  to  every  student  born  of  John  Harvard. 
And  the  estate  that  John  Harvard  left  was  left 
primarily  to  the  bookish,  or  those  that  way  in- 
clined —  although  without  any  narrowness. 


Professionalized  Scholarship 

The  fault  with  what  we  call  our  scholarship  sys- 
tem is  that  by  offering  money  as  the  reward  for  high 
attainment  in  college  work,  it  professionalizes  schol- 
arship. A  man  is  paid  to  make  high  grades  in  his 
studies.   This  is  literally  what  is  meant  by  the  award- 

19 


inp  of  a  scholarship  with  stipend.  The  principle  is 
wrong,  as  it  has  long  been  recognized  to  be  in  ath- 
letics. If  it  is  not  right  to  pay  an  undergraduate 
money  because  he  plays  football  with  distinction, 
it  is  not  right  to  pay  him  money  because  he  translates 
Latin  accurately  or  achieves  high  grades  in  history 
and  mathematics. 

In  this  issue  we  print  a  discussion  on  this  subject, 
scholarship.  It  was  provoked  by  a  recent  editorial 
in  the  Advocate,  and  while  it  is  highly  interesting  in 
its  viewpoint  and  in  its  analysis,  we  believe  that  the 
contention  of  the  editorial  stands.  It  is  that  pro- 
fessionalized, commercialized  scholarship  is  %vrong. 
It  is  not  the  best  way  to  help  scholarship,  nor  is  it 
the  best  way  to  help  worthy  students  who  are  in 
financial  need. 

Two  kinds  of  scholarships  are  offered  in  Harv^ard 
College:  those  with  stipend  and  those  without. 
On  its  face,  such  a  distinction  is  wrong.  For  it  di- 
vides the  scholarship  men  into  two  groups  —  the 
paid  and  the  honorary  —  and  the  very  fact  of  the 
division  hurts  both  groups.  The  honorary  scholar- 
ship, everybody  perceives,  is  not  so  valuable;  and 
the  paid  scholarship  somehow  seems  not  so  honorable. 
The  college  officially  has  made  another  division, 
calling  men  of  the  highest  rank  First  Group  Scholars, 
and  those  of  lower  rank,  who  have  yet  done  notable 
work.  Second  Group  Scholars;  and  in  both  groups 
are  represented  scholarships  with  and  without  sti- 
pend. But  in  the  eyes  of  the  undergraduate  public 
the  real  grouping  is  into  the  paid  and  the  unpaid, 
and  so  long  as  there  are  the  two  kinds  the  distinc- 
tion will  remain. 

By  accepting  a  scholarship  with  stipend,  a  man 
advertises  his  poverty.  For,  anybody  who  knows 
anything  about  the  scholarship  system  knows  that 
these  scholarships  are  given  only  to  those  students 
who  make  wTitten  application  for  them  —  applica- 
tions in  which  they  have  to  set  forth  their  financial 

20 


need,  their  home  ciroimstances  and  their  especial 
claim  to  financial  assistance  from  the  college.  The 
awards,  of  course,  are  made  to  the  best  scholars 
among  the  applicants;  and  this  generally  means  a 
high  standard  of  undergraduate  scholarship.  But 
it  is  also  true  that  the  awards  are  made  only  to  those 
who  haA^e  confessed  their  financial  distress  in  their 
applications.  Even  if  we  cannot  escape  the  double 
system,  we  might  neutralize  some  of  its  bad  influ- 
ence by  not  distinguishing  publicly  between  the 
scholars  who  receive  payment  and  those  who  receive 
only  honor. 

When  a  man  has  completed  his  seventeen  courses 
in  Har\'ard  College  he  gets  his  degree,  a  distinction 
wdthout  stipend.  The  same  argument  that  supports 
the  funded  scholarship  ^^ill  support  the  funded 
degree.  If  the  scholarship  is  gii^en  to  aid  the  young 
scholar  in  his  next  year's  work  in  college,  why  might 
not  a  stipend  be  awarded  with,  his  degree  —  som.e- 
thing  substantial  to  tide  him  over  that  imcertain 
first-year  in  the  world.^ 

G.  W.  Gr.\y,  'i2. 


Thei^e  is  a  rumor  that  the  faculty  have  ordered 
one  hundred  pious  maxims  and  Scripture  texts,  done 
in  worsted,  framed  and  glazed,  to  be  hung  in  the 
various  lecture  rooms,  in  harmony  with  the  standard 
of  taste  set  by  the  appropriate  inscription  upon 
Emerson  Hall.  The  Advocate  regrets  that  the  rumor 
has  no  foimdation,  and  that  no  further  effort  to 
rise  above  the  commonplace,  in  the  way  of  decora- 
tion, is  contemplated,  except  to  inscribe  upon  the 
opposite  facade  of  Emerson  Hall  the  sententious 
maxim  ^'Man  is  Mortal,"  in  answer  to  the  enig- 
matic question  ''What  is  Man?" 


21 


LEADERSHIP  OF  THE  INTELLECTUAL 
RATHER  TtL\N  TtlE   ATHLETIC 

(Advocate  Prize  Essay) 

Consideration  of  the  question  of  leadership  in- 
variably meets  with  protest.  The  intellectual 
proudly  disclaims  any  ambition  for  leadership,  that 
"  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind  '^ ;  the  athlete  shows  no 
inclination  whatever  to  reject  his  honors;  and  that 
purely  conceptual  being,  the  average  undergraduate^ 
tells  you  that  he  guesses  that  he  knows  whom  he 
wants  to  elect  as  leader.  Nevertheless,  there  are 
some  phases  of  the  problem  that  seem  to  require 
attention.  No  one  familiar  with  conditions  here  will 
deny  that  excellence  in  athletics  is  at  the  present 
time  the  chief  means  to  popularity  and  prominence 
in  college.  Few  will  deny  that  the  intellectual  stu- 
dent receives  but  a  meager  share  of  the  honors. 
Although  generally  exaggerated,  the  extent  of  ath- 
letic leadership  is  clearly  disproportionate.  Four 
fifths  of  the  nominees  for  offices  of  the  Junior  and 
Sophomore  classes  this  year  w^re  athletes  or  di- 
rectly connected  with  athletics  through  manager- 
ship, and  only  two  of  the  thirty-eight  nominations 
could  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination  be  ascribed 
to  intellectual  attainment.  In  the  Senior  class  this 
is  true  to  a  lesser  degree,  for  of  the  piu*ely  honorary 
offices  (excluding  poet,  orator,  etc.)  nearly  two 
thirds  were  filled  by  athletes  or  managers.  Even 
this  leaves  only  a  little  over  one  third  of  the  offices 
to  be  distributed  among  men  prominent  in  all  other 
activities.  Similarly,  over  two  thirds  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  student  council  are  athletes. 

Most  undergraduates  are  aware  of  this  pre- 
dominance of  athletic  leadership,  and  are  either 
satisfied  with  the  state  of  affairs  or  are  helpless  to 
affect  it.  The  number  of  the  contented  is  un- 
doubtedly large,  so  that  any  attempt  to  change 

22 


conditions  seems  at  first  consideration  an  impossi- 
bility. As  an  expression  of  the  interests  and  ideals 
of  the  community,  leadership  presents  a  fundamental 
problem.  Nevertheless,  we  often  hear  of  men  who, 
in  their  Senior  year,  wish  fer\'ently  that  they  had 
not  been  misled  by  present  ideals  of  achievement. 
And  the  faculty  has  taken  note  of  the  fact.  Says 
President  Lowell:  "'So  one  in  close  touch  with 
American  education  has  failed  to  notice  the  lack 
among  the  mass  of  undergraduates  of  keen  interest 
in  their  studies,  and  the  small  regard  for  scholarly 
attainment."  This  condition  is  inextricably  in- 
volved in  the  problem  of  leadership.  Moreover, 
athletic  leadership  must  be  recognized  as  a  cause  as 
well  as  an  effect  of  neglect  of  intellect;  so  that  in 
the  final  analysis  an  examination  of  the  causes  of 
the  one  is  more  or  less  the  discovery  of  the  causes 
of  the  other.  The  attempt  here  will  be  to  point  out 
these  causes  and  to  show  how  conditions  may  be 
changed  in  such  a  way  as  to  encourage  and  connect 
intellectual  leadership  with  intellectual  interest. 

The  solution  of  the  problem  does  not  lie  concealed 
in  the  pages  of  deep  treatises  on  education.  The 
means  of  increasing  intellectual  leadership  may  be 
arrived  at  through  an  examination  of  the  causes  of 
athletic  leadership.  Evident  though  these  may  be, 
it  would  be  well  to  consider  them  briefly.  There  are 
four  which  naturally  occur  to  one  and  these  may 
be  called,  for  convenience,  the  social  factor,  adver- 
tisement, the  dramatic  appeal  and  the  aim. 

For  a  number  of  related  reasons,  the  athlete  is,  in 
the  great  majority  of  cases,  sociable.  He  has  ready 
access  to  the  clubs  and  is  in  approximately  seven 
cases  out  of  ten  a  private  school  man  who  has  time 
to  spend  and  to  waste  in  sociability.  Such  men  do 
not  need  to  take  what  Dean  Hurlbut  calls  "the 
long  look  ahead"  which  calls  for  study  as  a  neces- 
sity. Poor  scholarship  is  not  confined  to  any  one 
class,  and  yet  for  better  or  for  worse,  the  time  of 

23 


club  men  is  at  their  disposal  and  they  do  not  use  it 
for  studying.  To  take  the  much-maligned  Institute 
as  an  example,  the  hundred  and  fifteen  men  taken 
from  the  class  of  19 14  last  year  got  a  total  of  six  A 
grades,  and  fifty-five  of  them  got  nothing  higher  than 
C.  All  the  Junior  class  officers  are  members  of  the 
organization  and  all  are  prominent  athletes.  The 
chances,  then,  of  an  athlete  being  unsociable  are 
small  even  without  regard  to  the  intrinsic  social 
qualities  of  sport. 

But  this  sociability  is  not  sufficient  to  elect  a 
man.    Here  the  second  factor  of  athletic  leadership 
is  important  —  ''advertising."    In  such  a  large  col- 
lege as  this  the  only  men  that  are  knowTi  by  all  are 
the  athletes.    Read  any  newspaper  during  the  foot- 
ball, track  or  baseball  season  and  you  will  realize 
the  truth  of  this  statement.    In  college  the  athlete  is 
known  by  sight  and  by  achievement.     Thousands 
come  to  see  him  play  and  go  wild  with  enthusiasm. 
And  although  some  men  might  realize  that  the 
values  of  the  crowd  were  false,  they  nevertheless 
join  in  and  cheer  with  the  best  of  them,  afterwards 
standing  in  not  a  little  awe  of  that  great  man,  the 
captain   of   the  Varsity.     There  is  indeed  ample 
justification  of  this,  and  it  is  here  that  what  has 
been  called  the  "dramatic  appeal"  comes  in.    Ath- 
letic achievement  is  tangible  and  leads  to  an  equally 
tangible  reward.    When  we  see  a  brawny  halfback 
plunging  through  the  line,  or  a  runner  breaking  the 
tape  in  record  time,  the  natural  impulse  is  toward  ad- 
miration.   He  is  something  of  a  hero  and  he  must 
be  honored.    So  we  make  him  a  leader  whether  he  is 
fitted  for  it  or  not.    And  this  immediateness  of  re- 
ward not  only  draws  men  into  athletics  but  also 
makes  its  appeal  to  those  who  do  not  compete. 

But  to  overlook  one  other  circumstance  would  be 
to  ignore  one  of  the  strongest  motives  and  one  of 
the  most  admirable  attributes  of  athletics.  When 
the  athlete  has  won  all  his  honors  and  recognition, 

24 


there  would  seem  to  be  no  other  incentive  to  the 
continuance  of  his  pursuits.  There  is  a  long  and 
hard  training  season  to  go  through  and  daily  practice 
of  great  rigor  and  monotony.  The  hope  of  more 
honors  may  be  a  cause  for  the  sacrifice,  but  it  would 
be  a  very  Macbeth  of  ambition  that  would  submit 
to  it  for  that  reason  alone.  There  is  here  that  mo- 
tive which  is  usually  called  college  spirit,  the  al- 
truistic spirit  of  loyalty  which,  artificial  and  short- 
sighted though  it  may  be,  undoubtedly  plays  a  part. 
Athletes  have  the  sense  that  they  are  working  for 
something  vastly  more  important  than  themselves. 
Do  they  not  constantly  disregard  their  own  interest 
in  the  interest  of  the  team?  Inevitably  this  idea  has 
its  effect  upon  the  rank  and  file  of  the  students,  and 
they  feel  all  the  more  called  on  to  reward  their  al- 
truistic champions.  Such  are  the  most  obvious 
causes  of  athletic  leadership.  The  athlete  is  known 
socially  and  through  the  sporting  columns ;  _  he  is 
admired  for  his  achievements  and  his  spirit.  A 
sharp  if  not  a  bitter  contrast  it  is  to  turn  from  the 
athlete  to  that  nervous,  short-sighted,  weakened  en- 
tity which  represents  to  most  undergraduates  pure 
intellect.  What  alternative  is  there?  A  man  comes 
to  college,  sees  the  contrast,  and  fancies  that  he 
must  be  either  the  one  or  the  other.  This  is  true  to 
an  extent  that  is  deplorable.  The  man  goes  in  for 
study  reluctantly,  often  because  he  has  failed  in  his 
attempts  at  outside  activities.  The  problem  is 
therefore  twofold:  to  prevent  the  development  of 
intellectual  extremes  and  to  make  intellectual  pur- 
suits seem  less  repugnant  to  the  man  on  the  border 
line,  who  cannot  be  athletic  and  will  not  be  what  he 
calls  a  grind.  Or  concisely,  the  intellectual  must  be 
made  sociable,  and  the  club  man  must  be  made 
intellectual  so  far  as  possible. 

The  mere  mention  of  such  theses  draws  a  smile. 
One  contrasts  in  thought  the  man  who  burns  the 
midnight  oil  with  the  man  who  drinks  the  midnight 

25 


wine.  It  IS  taken  for  granted  that  the  student 
must  work  alone  and  live  alone  because  of  his  nature 
and  his  work.  There  is  no  more  fallacious  idea  and, 
under  the  present  system,  no  more  deplorable  fact. 
A  man  may  go  out  for  any  activity  and  he  gets  to 
know  men,  but  let  him  study  and  he  studies  alone. 
The  claim  here  is  that  this  condition  is  not  inevi- 
table. A  man  may  study  and  still  have  leisure  for 
sociability  if  opportunity  is  offered  to  him.  He  may 
moreover  study  with  men  much  more  than  now. 
The  Germans  seem  to  realize  this  fact.  Says  Paul- 
sen: "We  are  convinced  that  prolonged  and  daily 
intercourse  with  men  and  youths  devoted  to  science 
is  the  best  way  to  lead  even  those  who  are  not 
destined  to  be  actual  scholars  to  a  higher  conception 
of  their  Hfe  tasks  and  to  provide  them  at  the  same 
time  with  the  necessary  scientific  knowledge  for  their 
professions."  Socialize  students  then,  and  in  so  far 
as  the  nature  of  study  will  allow,  socialize  study. 

The  most  obvious  means  of  socialization  is 
through  organization,  and  organization  under  en- 
couraging circumstances.  There  is  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa.  It  is  well  enough  organized,  but  under  dis- 
couraging circumstances.  Its  headquarters  are  far 
above  the  common  herd,  in  a  tower!  While  the 
440-yard  runner  luxuriates  in  his  Varsity  club, 
the  scholar  climbs  the  medieval  stair  to  a  musty 
room  in  the  tower  of  Memorial  Hall.  The  chief  func- 
tion of  the  organization.  Phi  Beta  Kappa  day,  is 
equally  remote  and  equally  musty.  Build  Varsity 
clubs,  have  football  parades  in  stadiums,  what  you 
will  for  athletes,  but  don't  confine  your  scholars  to 
a  tower!  The  only  time  that  they  appear  is  when 
nobody  sees  them,  on  June  eighteenth  or  thereabouts. 
Now  it  might  not  be  necessary  to  build  a  clubhouse 
for  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  but  surely  they  should 
have  some  respectable  headquarters.  Members  of 
the  organization  must  take  the  initiative  and  bestir 
themselves  to  obtain  a  meeting  place.     Further, 

26 


much  more  can  be  made  of  the  elections  to  the  so- 
ciety and  must  be,  if  the  undergraduate  is  to  feel 
that  he  is  not  among  the  number  of  the  superior  and 
successful  men  of  the  college.  As  a  definite  sug- 
gestion, why  not  let  the  chosen  eights  and  twenty- 
twos  wear  caps  and  gowns  for  the  week  of  their 
election?  The  suggestion  is  radical  but  not  an  im- 
possibility. 

But  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  is  a  far-distant  goal  for 
the  Freshman  or  the  Sophomore.  For  him  the 
nearest  point  of  distinction  is  the  first  group.  It  is 
indeed  a  distinction!  A  name  in  the  Crimson  and 
a  certificate  on  the  wall  of  College  House.  The 
only  people  that  know  it  are  the  Dean  and  the 
office  clerks.  Here  is  another  chance  for  sociability. 
The  first  group  should  have  a  social  organization, 
officers  and  functions.  A  smoker,  or,  more  preten- 
tiously, a  dinner  attended  by  the  Dean,  the  Presi- 
dent or  others  who  have  scholarship  at  heart, 
would  make  the  student  realize  that  excellence  in 
curricular  work  is  really  a  distinction.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  say  that  in  the  case  of  the  student,  virtue 
is  its  o^Ti  reward;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  where  in- 
tellectual excellence  means  isolation,  virtue  is  its 
own  punishment.  In  this  matter  of  the  groups,  the 
initiative  must  be  taken  by  the  faculty  or  by  the 
student  council. 

Excellence  in  curricular  work  and  a  vdder  recog- 
nition of  it  could  be  further  encouraged  by  a  slight 
reform  in  the  section-meeting  system.  All  aspects  of 
this  much-debated  question  cannot  be  considered 
here,  but  from  the  point  of  view  of  sociability  and 
interest,  informality  and  more  active  participation 
should  be  the  aim.  Conceding  the  necessity  of 
written  tests,  the  discussion  which  takes  place  in 
the  meetings  can  be  made  much  more  valuable  by 
means  of  more  discussion  by  the  students  and  less 
by  the  instructor.  Students  might  lead  either  en- 
tirely or  occasionally,  and  all  such  purely  discursive 

27 


meetings  should  be  made  optional,  so  that  the  men 
would  come  to  gain  knowledge  rather  than  to  show 
what  they  do  not  know.  One  form  of  discussion  is 
becoming  common  in  such  courses  as  History  I. 
The  honor  men  get  together  every  two  weeks  and 
one  or  two  give  the  results  of  some  special  study^ 
which  is  forthwith  discussed.  This  system  can  easily 
be  extended,  and  certainly  would  make  for  greater 
sociability  and  interest  without  much  danger  of 
serious  evil. 

This  idea  of  the  socialization  of  study  may  be 
carried  farther,  namely,  into  the  realm  of  intellec- 
tual interests  that  are  outside  the  regular  work. 
One  notes  with  regret  the  degeneration  of  some  of 
the  clubs  which  once  had  distinct  intellectual  aims; 
for  a  club  with  an  aim  is  the  most  ideal  form  of 
sociable  study,  while  a  social  club  without  an  aim 
is  very  nearly  useless.  The  Institute  was,  for  in- 
stance, originally  a  club  for  the  encouragement  of 
debating  and  public  speaking  in  the  college.  The 
Signet  was,  and  still  is  to  a  minor  degree,  a  literary 
club.  Many  of  the  social  clubs,  realizing  the  neces- 
sity of  some  central  interest  for  the  preservation  of 
even  a  semblance  of  solidarity,  have  made  the  pres- 
entation of  a  play  a  regular  function.  This  indi- 
cates a  tendency  which  will  no  doubt  become  a 
permanent  characteristic  if  intellect  becomes  pre- 
dominant. Of  course,  nothing  but  the  action  of  the 
social  clubs  themselves  can  or  should  make  changes 
in  their  constitutions. 

But  grouping  by  intellectual  achievement  does 
not  depend  by  any  means  upon  the  social  clubs  at 
present.  It  suffices  but  to  mention  the  Dramatic, 
Speakers'  or  Philosophical  clubs,  the  musical  clubs 
and  the  organizations  of  the  pubhcations,  the 
Economic  Society  and  the  political  clubs.  Most  of 
these  organizations  are  small  and  form  a  distinct 
and  sometimes  exclusive  circle,  intimate  among 
themselves  but  strangers  to  the  rest  of  the  college. 

28 


The  only  suggestion  here  is  that  they  widen  their 
scope  and  adopt  a  policy  of  hospitality.  Faculty 
interest  is  invaluable  to  such  clubs,  not  only  in 
making  their  discussions  more  valuable  but  in 
arousing  interest.  Professors  might  mention  the 
clubs  in  their  courses,  if  there  are  any  related  to 
the  department,  and  endeavor  to  carry-  interest  out- 
side of  the  classroom.  The  club  secretaries  might 
obtain  from  the  office  the  names  of  all  men  special- 
izing in  their  line  and  extend  uivitations  to  them 
to  attend  the  meetings.  But  at  most  such  efforts 
can  only  help  to  arouse  intellectual  enthusiasm. 
Leadership,  the  problem  in  hand,  is  a  matter  for 
the  whole  college  and  classes  and  can  only  be  in- 
directly affected  by  such  means.  In  this  connec- 
tion it  would  be  well  to  note  a  point  that  confirms 
the  idea  that  activity  must  affect  the  whole  college 
to  affect  leadership.  The  publications  were  men- 
tioned above.  Now  it  will  be  noticed  that  men 
engaged  in  these  activities  are  often  elected  to 
offices,  especially  in  the  Senior  class.  This  seems  to 
point  to  the  fact  that  here,  as  in  the  case  of  the  ath- 
lete, the  prime  requisite  for  leadership  is  that  the 
man  be  known. 

To  return,  then,  to  that  intellectual  activity  which 
concerns  every  man  in  college,  study,  the  second 
question  arises:  How  can  the  intellectual  student 
be  made  kno^m  to  the  college  or  even  to  his  owoi 
class?  Or,  to  use  the  commercial  phrase,  how  can 
he  be  advertised?  To  take  a  concrete  exaniple, 
there  is  a  large  course  in  the  college  attended  chiefly 
by  Sophomores  which  is  conducted  in  a  way  that 
is  in  this  respect  model.  After  midyears  the  names 
of  the  men  receiving  honor  grades  were  posted  and 
the  professor  in  charge  not  only  drew  attention  to 
the  fact  but  also  spoke  for  ahnost  fifteen  minutes 
on  the  signfficance  of  good  work  in  college.  To 
my  knowledge  this  course  is  a  notable  exception, 
whereas  it  could  easily  be  the  rule.    Someone  may 

29 


bring  up  the  objection  that  it  was  a  grammar-school 
method,  to  which  it  may  be  answered  that  the 
grammar  school  has  much  to  show  us  on  the  point 
of  intellectual  emphasis.  True,  the  performance  gave 
rise  in  this  instance  to  derisive  grunts  and  sugges- 
tions of  grinds  and  the  like,  but  on  the  whole  a 
healthy  number  of  shame-faced  youths  viewed  with 
regret  that  list  of  honor  men.  The  grind  theory, 
that  nightmare  to  the  man  with  social  aspirations, 
has  now,  thanks  to  President  Lowell  and  others, 
been  fairly  well  exploded. 

Grades,  however,  are  not  the  only  marks  of 
scholarly  distinction.  Honorary  scholarships  and 
prizes  should  be  presented  somewhat  more  publicly 
than  at  present,  when  Commencement  is  the  occa- 
sion of  such  functions.  At  colleges  where  attendance 
at  chapel  is  compulsory,  all  awards  of  the  kind  are 
made  in  chapel.  Here  at  Harvard,  having  no  com- 
pulsory chapel,  we  feel  the  need  of  such  assemblings. 
The  Freshman  class  is  the  only  one  that  ever  comes 
together  as  a  body,  and  as  for  the  college  as  a  whole, 
not  once  in  the  course  of  a  year  does  it  get  together, 
save  perhaps  at  the  football  games.  We  deplore  the 
lack  of  esprit  de  corps  among  Harvard  men,  and  yet 
the  fact  remains  that  such  a  thing  as  an  assemblage 
of  the  whole  college  is  unknown.  This  is  no  plea  for 
the  "mob  spirit"  that  foreigners  have  noticed  in 
other  of  our  American  universities.  The  meeting 
proposed  would  really  be  a  useful,  not  to  say  im- 
pressive occasion.  At  present  one  comes  to  college 
at  the  beginning  of  the  term  and  registers  in  some 
small  recitation  room.  College  seems  but  a  collec- 
tion of  buildings,  a  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
where  one  gets  knowledge.  As  for  the  where  and  the 
when  of  such  a  meeting,  conditions  simplify  the 
problem,  for  Memorial  Hall  is  the  only  building 
large  enough  to  hold  the  entire  university.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  year  and  at  such  other  rare  occa- 
sions as  might  occur  it  might  well  be  used  for  the 

30 


purpose.  Action  on  a  matter  of  this  sort  lies  with 
the  authorities  and  can  be  affected  by  undergradu- 
ates only  by  a  display  of  sentiment  in  its  favor. 

Incidental  to  the  measures  advocated  above  would 
be  that  "dramatic  appeal"  mentioned  in  connection 
wdth  athletics.  But  at  one  other  point  it  might  be 
emphasized:  there  should  be  more  celebrations  in 
connection  with  our  illustrious  graduates.  One 
rarely  hears  mentioned  the  names  of  such  men  as 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  Sumner  or  Thoreau;  the 
great  leaders  of  the  world  outside  are  never  men- 
tioned. No  one  wishes  to  turn  chapel  into  a  Positiv- 
ist  temple,  and  yet  it  did  occur  to  several  people  this 
year  that  some  observance  might  have  been  made 
there  of  Lincoln's  birthday.  What  efforts  the  Me- 
morial Society  makes  are  chiefly  confined  to  the  com- 
memoration of  building  anniversaries,  and  although 
the  preservation  of  such  tradition  is  of  value,  there 
are  others  equally  so.  An  occasional  mention  of  the 
men  whom  Harvard  has  contributed  to  the  American 
Hall  of  Fame  might  do  a  great  deal  toward  en- 
couraging the  intellectual  attitude  here  and  perhaps 
cause  reflection  on  the  present  oblivion  of  the  men 
of  gridiron  fame  in  the  past. 

The  last  phase  of  the  problem  of  intellectual 
activity,  nam.ely,  its  aim,  remains  yet  to  be  treated. 
Manifestly  the  intellectual  clubs  stand  in  no  need 
of  aims,  but  exist  because  of  them.  Disorganized 
curricular  work,  however,  shows  too  often  a  lack  of 
purpose  and  aim.  High  grades  are  made  an  end  in 
themselves  and  are  not  regarded  as  a  mere  indica- 
tion of  the  pursuit  of  some  significant  end.  The 
result  is  that  men  are  found  taking  courses  that  never 
in  any  direct  way  will  be  of  use  to  them,  and  this 
in  spite  of  the  new  elective  system.  For  the  four 
advanced  courses  necessitated  by  concentration  in 
one  group  in  many  instances  afford  ample  excuse 
for  taking  twelve  of  the  easiest  courses  that  can  be 
discovered.     It  is,  moreover,  a  matter  of  common 

31 


observation  and  personal  experience  that  choice 
does  not  necessarily  involve  a  purpose.  Often  the 
choice  is  made  without  intelligence  or  a  complete 
knowledge  of  the  available  courses.  Here  is  a  need 
of  relating  the  different  departments  of  the  college, 
their  scope  and  functions.  To  choose  a  course  of 
study  intelligently,  a  Freshman  must  know,  for  in- 
stance, the  difference  between  such  subjects  as  So- 
ciology and  Social  Ethics,  and  the  relation  of  His- 
tory and  Economics,  the  points  of  contact  between 
Philosophy  and  Physics.  Safeguards  have  been 
made  to  offset  these  weaknesses  of  detail,  and  yet 
there  are  indications  that  they  still  remain.  They 
could  be  remedied  in  part  by  including  in  the  col- 
lege catalogue  short  articles  on  the  aim  and  scope 
of  the  divisions  and  departments  written  by  the 
professors.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  they 
would  be  read.  Only  one  other  suggestion  concern- 
ing this  unity  of  the  college  course  presents  itself, 
prompted  by  the  method  lately  adopted  of  oral 
examination  for  degrees  in  the  departments  of  His- 
tory, Government  and  Economics.  The  plan  is 
very  much  to  the  point  under  consideration,  but  all 
subjects  not  being  adapted  to  oral  examination,  writ- 
ten examination  might  be  expedient.  In  Germany 
state  professional  examinations  are  taken  at  the  com- 
pletion of  the  college  course,  qualifying  for  the  final 
examination  for  government  positions.  The  plan 
is  therefore  at  least  feasible. 

But  the  attainment  of  unity  in  the  college  course 
merely  accentuates  the  necessity  of  some  aim  for 
that  unity.  A  purposeless,  artificial  unity  is  as  bad 
as  a  vague  pursuit  of  general  culture;  it  is  better  to 
stand  at  the  crossroads  than  to  take  the  wrong  road, 
however  deliberate  and  consistent  the  choice  may 
be.  We  are  squarely  faced,  then,  by  the  problem  of 
aim.  Are  there  any  ends  for  scholarly  effort,  the 
partial  attainment  of  which  would  inspire  admira- 
tion akin  to  that  felt  for  the  loyal  athlete?    Are  there 

32 


any  aims  which  would  stimulate  such  devotion  to 
intellectual  pursuits  as  that  which  binds  the  ath- 
lete to  his  team? 

As  the  first  stimulus  to  intellectual  effort,   the 
professional  aim  is  perhaps  the  most  obvious.    The 
effect  of  college  work  on  professional  careers  has 
lately  been  much  discussed.     Undergraduates  are 
constantly  ad\dsed  not  to  study  subjects  allied  with 
the  professions  which  they  have  in  view,  but  to 
concentrate  in  departments  in  which  (to  make  a 
doubtful  distinction)  they  are  interested.     Admit- 
tedly there  is  a  danger  of  premature  specialization; 
but  every  Scylla  has  its  Charybdis.  Ad\dce  to  concen- 
trate according  to  whim  encourages  aimlessness  and 
a  harmful  indift'erence  toward  undergraduate  work. 
It  is  claimed  that  the  growth  of  the  graduate  school 
is  responsible  for  this  shift  of  emphasis,  this  atti- 
tude.    Says  Flexner  in  his  book  on  American  uni- 
versities:   "Research  has  largely  appropriated  the 
resources  of  the  college,  substituting  the  methods  and 
interest  of  highly  specialized  investigation  for  the 
larger  objects  of  college  training.    The  way  out  lies, 
as  I  see  it,  through  the  \dgorous  reassertion  of  the 
priority  of  college  as  such.    The  point  of  emphasis 
must  be  shifted  back.  .  .  .  Historically,  Yale,  Co- 
lumbia,  Harvard,    Princeton,    are    colleges.     The 
A.B.,  not  the  Ph.D.,  is  and  always  has  been  the 
college  man.    The  college  has  been  richly  endowed. 
And  it  is  the  college,  where  a  boy  may  be  trained  in 
seriousness  of  interest  and  mastery  of  power,  that 
the    nation    preeminently  needs."     This   may   be 
thought  extreme.    But  is  there  not  much  truth  in  it? 
Do  we  not  often  hear  the  Junior  or  Senior  remark: 
"There  is  no  need  of  working  here;   wait  till  I  get 
into  the  Law  School."    The  professional  aim,  then, 
has  been  somewhat  obscured  and  in  its  place  noth- 
ing has  been  substituted.     Only  one  concrete  sug- 
gestion is  here  advanced  to  reinstate  it.    At  various 
times  it  has  been  urged  that  a  course  be  given  in  the 

33 


Freshman  year  which  shall  not  only  describe  the 
different  professions,  as  has  been  done  at  other  col- 
leges, but  also  to  relate  them  to  each  other  and  to 
college  training.  It  is  important  that  men  should 
know  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  their  chosen 
professions,  but  still  more  important  that  they 
should  know  the  points  of  contact.  Too  often  these 
courses  are  so  conducted  that  men  think  that  one 
profession  and  the  aims  of  one  profession  are  the 
important  things  to  master.  Not  at  all;  the  im- 
portant thing  is  the  whole.  Let  him  see  his  func- 
tion and  his  relation  clearly  and  then  let  the  leaders 
of  the  course  say  as  much  as  they  please :  If  you  go 
into  medicine,  study  the  Fine  Arts.  That  very 
statement,  inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  involves 
most  essentially  the  presupposition  of  an  aim. 
Let  it  be  here  understood  that  this  is  no  attempt 
to  impose  any  one  aim.  The  attempt  is  to  give 
the  undergraduate  some  idea  of  the  alternatives,  the 
opportunity  and  choice  which  is  open  to  him.  Are 
there  any  other  alternatives? 

A  clue  to  the  other  important  aim,  choice  of  which 
might  bring  into  intellectual  pursuits  something  of 
the  enthusiasm  of  athletics,  is  obtained  through  an 
inquiry  into  the  aims  and  purposes  of  foreign  uni- 
versities. One  very  marked  difference  between  their 
system  and  ours  is  notable.  The  state  plays  a  more 
important  part.  In  France  this  tendency  has  de- 
veloped objectionably  into  "career-making,"  but  in 
Germany  the  system  seems  to  stimulate  intellectual 
exertion  and  to  afford  a  concrete  goal  for  students  so 
bent.  We  find  university- trained  men  "actively 
engaged  in  the  bureaus  and  courts,  in  ecclesiastical 
consistories  and  school  faculties,  in  the  hygienic 
and  technological  administrations  of  every  grade." 
In  England  diplomacy  is  the  aim  of  great  numbers  of 
university  men,  according  to  one  of  our  distinguished 
visitors,  and  most  of  the  statesmen  of  Great  Britain 
today  are  university  graduates.    Here  in  America 

34 


the  connection  of  the  university  with  the  state  has 
lately  received  no  little  attention.  It  is  becoming 
recognized  that  the  federal  departments  need  men 
of  technical  training;  poHtics  for  men  of  higher 
caliber  than  at  present;  the  diplomatic  and  civil 
services  are  open  to  college  men.  Could  not  some 
definite  connection  be  established  between  our  gov- 
ernment and  national  universities  such  as  Harv-ard? 
Such  connection  would  afford  another  definite  aim 
for  men  in  college  and  would  in  that  case  tend  to 
increase  interest  in  intellectual  pursuits  and  the 
regard  for  attainment  along  those  lines.  This  propo- 
sition might  be  looked  into  by  the  employment 
bureau  here,  keeping  in  mind  the  direct  connection 
of  academic  work  with  the  growing  departments  of 
the  government. 

An  attempt  to  keep  in  mind  the  importance  of 
that  individualism  and  differentiation  v/hich  Har- 
vard has  so  jealously  guarded  and  at  the  same  time 
to  impart  to  such  individualism  clear  and  definite 
aims  requires  the  brain  and  experience  of  some  pro- 
found educator  with  a  keen  insight  into  undergradu- 
ate life.  But  that  should  not  hinder  the  voice  of  the 
undergraduate  from  clear  expression  on  these  points. 
Unmistakably,  and  imperatively,  the  dem.and  for 
aim  and  a  worthy  purpose  arises.  The  whole  col- 
lege seems  to  be  engaged  in  following  the  motto: 
*' We  don't  know  where  we  're  going,  but  we  're  on 
our  way."  The  exchange  of  an  aimless  condition  of 
social  life  for  an  equally  aimless  pursuit  of  intellec- 
tual honors  naturally  makes  little  appeal  to  those 
men  who  are  free  to  choose.  The  trend  of  these 
latter  suggestions  is  therefore  to  present  to  men  the 
alternative  aims  which  college  work  may  have,  to 
relate  them  to  each  other  and  to  ultimate  human 
progress.  It  will  be  admitted  that  Harvard  is  in 
this  respect  far  ahead  of  some  of  her  American  con- 
temporaries; but  not  all  Harv^ard.  Too  many  men 
live   in   intellectual   isolation   from   the   world  of 

35 


thought  which  stirs  outside;  too  many  by  reason  of 
that  isolation  have  lost  their  sense  for  that  which  is 
essentially  valuable  to  mankind;  too  many  are  mis- 
led and  carried  away  by  the  mob  spirit  of  the  ath- 
letic field,  by  the  temporary  greatness  of  the  ath- 
lete. 

The  method  of  this  article  has  been  comparison. 
In  comparing  the  circumstances  of  athletic  leader- 
ship with  the  condition  of  intellectual  leadership, 
it  would  seem  that  the  latter  suffers  from  disad- 
vantages which  may  be  summed  up  in  one  word: 
neglect.  The  hope  is  that  the  organization,  the 
publicity,  the  appeals  and  the  aims  that  have  caused 
athletic  leadership  will  also  cause  intellectual  leader- 
ship. Intellectual  activity,  more  especially  curricular 
w^ork,  must  be  socialized  so  far  as  is  compatible 
with  its  nature;  the  man  of  intellect  must  be 
known,  he  must  be  brought  into  contact  with  the 
college  as  a  whole.  Secondly,  such  emphasis  must 
be  laid  upon  the  work  that  it  too  shall  make  its  ap- 
peal to  the  imagination.  Above  all,  and  more  im- 
portant than  all,  intellectual  activity  must,  most 
imperatively,  have  an  aim  and  a  purpose  for  every- 
one who  goes  in  for  it,  whether  it  be  a  definite  pro- 
fessional aim  or  a  purpose  more  vague  and  vision- 
ary, some  enthusiasm  for  the  progress  of  humanity, 
of  the  nation,  or  of  science  and  art.  But  this  pro- 
gram requires  action,  and  cooperative  action.  We 
need  a  new  cooperative  society  paying  a  larger  divi- 
dend of  intellect.  Let  those  who  believe  that  in- 
tellectual pursuits  are  neglected  and  at  a  disad- 
vantage seek  out  kindred  spirits  and  at  once  apply 
the  principles  of  organization  and  enthusiasm. 

From  time  to  time  mention  has  been  made  of  the 
organizations  which  seem  most  fitted  to  carry  out  the 
suggestions.  But  even  then  they  must  work  to- 
gether —  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  and  the  faculty,  the 
student  council  and  the  social  clubs,  the  intellectual 
clubs  and  the  professors.     There  is  no  immediate 

36 


danger  that  individualism  vdW  die  at  Harvard,  but 
it  must  be  forgotten  for  the  time  in  order  to  attain 
the  real  differentiation  and  individualism  that  arises 
from  definite  cooperation. 

Robert  Walston  Chubb,  '15. 


THE  ADVOCATE:  FORTY-FIVE  YEARS 
AFTER 

"  Her  portion  is  the  spirit, 
No  other  dower  has  she.'* 

It  has  been  pleasant  to  know  forty-five  boards  of 
editors.  Our  business  managers  have  been  mighty 
men.  When  they  made  subscribers  of  ninety  per  cent 
of  the  undergraduates,  what  captains  of  industry 
they  were !  How  they  must  have  excelled  the  book 
agent  and  the  charity  worker!  Did  they  use  clubs, 
or  forceful  words?  Often  they  were  fellows  who  had 
no  other  outlet  for  the  capacity  which  later  distin- 
guished them  in  great  business  affairs.  When  the 
faculty  was  hostile  to  the  Advocate,  it  was  a  pleasant 
pill  to  give  $300  per  year  from  the  Advocate's  earn- 
ings to  the  Library.  That  must  have  shamed  many 
a  millionaire.  When  rich  men's  sons  are  business 
editors,  sometimes  the  subscription  list  is  smaller. 
The  Advocate  should  seek  men  to  be  business  edi- 
tors who  are  going  to  be  rich,  instead  of  appointing 
those  with  rich  fathers. 

Mother  Advocate  can  be  still  prouder  of  her  liter- 
ary editors.  For  forty  years,  whenever  there  has 
been  a  prize  competition  for  stories,  it  has  been  a 
comfort  to  turn  to  the  list  and  see  how  many  of  the 
prize  takers  have  been  Advocate  editors.  At  any 
time  look  over  the  good  magazines  of  the  day  and 
you  are  sure  of  finding  contributions  from  some  of 
our  poets,  our  novelists  and  our  story  writers. 
While  the  only  recent  Harvard  President  of  the 

37 


United  States  was  an  Advocate  man,  there  were  a 
host  of  others  of  as  good  presidential  timber. 

One  editor  of  '87  is  recognized  in  New  York  as 
the  best-equipped  lawyer  there  is.  A  small  army  of 
others  are  nearly  as  distinguished  among  those  who 
know  them.  Training  in  English  is  the  best  equip- 
ment. Merely  to  furnish  the  armament  for  such  an 
army  is  a  good-enough  heritage.  It  is  no  mess  of 
pottage  still  to  be  the  workroom  and  the  armory  for 
the  men  who  are  masters  in  forging  good  English. 

But  the  Advocate  had  higher  work.  It  was  a 
leader  in  a  boyish  way  in  the  new  paths  that  de- 
veloped Harvard  from  the  seminary  presided  over 
by  retired  clergymen  to  the  university  with  its 
ample  equipment  for  teaching  all  Americans  to  do 
service  to  their  country.  And  there  is  where  I  think 
the  Advocate  has  still  urgent  work  to  do.  My  chum 
tells  me  he  sent  his  son  to  Amherst.  He  is  a  Con- 
gregational minister  and  a  grand  fellow  with  little 
money  and  a  fit  pride,  which  last  indisposes  him  to 
accept  any  help  in  his  boy's  training. 

Before  the  Advocate  can  quit  —  for  the  Advocate 
was  the  student's  Advocate  —  we  should  teach  the 
Corporation  to  make  tuition  as  cheap  as  it  is  in 
Germany.  There  is  no  such  perfect  pedagogy  any- 
where as  at  Harvard.  Our  faculty  is  composed  of 
perfect  teachers.  But  let  us  cry  out  at  Harvard  for 
recognized  leaders  in  public  thought.  Let  us  look 
again  for  such  leaders  as  were  Lowell,  Longfellow^ 
Agassiz  and  Asa  Gray,  for  leaders  known  all  over  the 
world  and  especially  all  over  the  United  States. 
Harvard  needs  the  country  and  the  country  needs 
Harvard,  now  more  than  ever.  It  is  a  losing  battle 
if  men  go  to  the  Western  universities  or  to  the  less 
amply  equipped  colleges  when  they  might  have 
come  to  Harv^ard.  Harvard  should  have  had  10,000 
students  long  ago.  Students  go  where  they  see  the 
leaders  they  have  heard  of.  Let  us  do  great  work  by 
teaching  that  great  leaders  can  each  have  a  follow- 

38 


ing  of  a  thousand  hearers  ^Yhere  the  ordinary  pro- 
fessor has  a  hundred.  Therein  is  Harvard's  best 
economy.  There  is  Harv^ard's  latent  wealth.  Great 
leaders  may  be  good  teachers  as  well,  and  the  vital 
spark  of  leadership  is  a  value  of  itself.  When  all 
the  great  historians  were  Harvard  men,  not  one  of 
them  was  enrolled  among  Harvard's  professors. 
The  great  American  lawyers,  surgeons  and  engineers 
have  been  Harvard  men  and  might  be  induced  to 
lecture  at  Harv^ard,  but  have  not  been  asked.  Re- 
member Motley,  Parkman,  John  Fiske,  Ticknor  and 
Prescott,  historians;  Choate  and  Carter,  lawyers; 
Morrison,  the  country's  greatest  bridge  builder; 
Bull  and  McBumey,  the  great  surgeons;  and  read 
Bancroft's  letter  in  the  catalogue.  It  was  a  waste  to 
put  Emerson  out  of  the  college  for  forty  years  and 
first  to  recognize  him  by  building  Emerson  Hall 
when  he  was  dead.  It  is  a  partial  w^aste  to  do  merely 
the  pleasant  and  profitable  w^ork  of  pouring  knowl- 
edge into  the  heads  of  athletes,  automobifists, 
yachtsmen  and  polo  players  and  to  keep  up  the  cost 
of  education  and  the  habit  of  extravagant  living  so 
that  men  of  the  intellectual  strain  go  elsew^here,  in 
part.  It  is  best  to  grow  figs  from  fig  trees.  There  is 
better  return  from  the  investment  if  you  give  train- 
ing of  the  intellect  to  those  whose  forefathers  had 
similar  training.  Let  men  worship  money  and  ath- 
letics where  they  make  a  special  job  of  those  crops. 
Honor  the  honor  of  our  athletes,  but  have  they  really 
been  leaders  even  in  their  own  lines?  You  are  Har- 
vard's unbeaten  champions.  Talk  of  giving  up  the 
Advocate!  WTiy,  "the  sequel  to  that  day  would 
unsolder  the  goodliest  fellow^ship  of  famous  knights 
whereof  this  world  holds  record." 

Give  us  men  as  editors  of  the  Advocate  who  will 
do  again  for  Harvard  and  the  country  what  the  edi- 
tors did  before  in  old  times  when  they  told  the 
faculty,  overseers  and  the  Corporation  of  prin- 
ciples which  those  gentlemen  later  adopted.     Sup- 

39 


port  President  Lowell.    Remember,  you  yourselves 
are  Harv^ard's  heirs  apparent,  more  so  than  the 
athletes,  the  sports,  the  money  bags. 
Long  life  to  Harvard  and  the  Advocate! 

W.  G.  Peckiiam,  '67. 


WILLIAM  JAMES 

FrRST,  grave-browed  Plato ;  at  his  lips  the  smile, 
And  tempering  humor  lighting  the  serene  eyes; 

Conf ounder  of  fools ;  hater  of  Sophist  guile ; 
Beyond  all  mortals  wise. 

And  next,  the  Father  of  all  Knowledge,  he 

Whose  mighty  mind  bent  thought  itself  to  law. 

Austere  Aureiius  next,  straight-hewn  and  free  — 
Free  as  the  truth  he  saw. 

Then  Galileo,  who  had  set  aright 

The  erring  stars;  spare  Kant;  and  by  him  one 
That  saw  Creation's  plan  in  dazzling  light, 

Great  England's  greatest  son  — 

All  w^ho  have  walked  the  earth  with  careless  feet, 
Heedless  alike  of  power  and  of  all  gain, 

To  follow  after  Wisdom  sadly-sweet, 
Bearing  not  seldom  pain. 

Above  the  fog  of  earthly  doubt  they  sit. 
At  kingly  ease  around  the  celestial  board, 

Proving  with  logic  sure  and  zest  of  wit 
God's  time-enduring  Word. 

And,  lo!  a  place  for  one  not  least  august; 

The  frank,  firm  step  rings  on  the  starry  floor. 
And  Socrates,  the  brave,  the  good,  the  just, 
For  James  flings  wide  the  door. 

Percy  Adams  Hutchinson,  '98. 
40 


THE    FIFTY-YEAR  CLASS 

Freshmen  we,  year  sixty-three, 
Conscripts  then  of  Arcadie. 

Fresh  the  breezes,  fresh  the  flowers, 
Fair  the  maidens,  fleet  the  hours, 

Fair  the  River,  cool  and  clear. 
Blest  was  Arcadie  that  year. 

Pilgrims  through  the  world  we  stray'd, 
Love  we  begg'd;  for  faith  we  pray'd. 

One  that  took  an  argosy 
Found  it  Hght  as  fantasy. 

Voyagers,  by  sea  and  land. 
Home  retum'd,  a  remnant  band, 

Lacking  trumpet,  now,  and  drum. 
Veterans  of  wars  we  come. 

Not,  as  putting  armor  off. 
Our  mortality  we  doff. 

We  thy  eldest.  Mother  Dear, 
Saying  hail  —  farewell,  appear. 

Mother,  noble,  resolute, 
Passing,  halting,  we  salute. 

O  immortal  quite  thou  art, 
And  we  sure  of  thee  are  part. 

Harvard's  oldest  children  we, 
Heirs  of  immortality. 

Nos  victiiri,  hear  us,  pray, 
Salutamus,  Mater,  te! 

41 


Hear  our  chorus'  dying  fall, 
"Harvard!  Harvard!"   still  we  call. 

W.  G.  Peckham,  '67. 


"HOLWORTHY,  H'Y" 

{Read  at  the  Holworthy  Centennial  Dinner,  May  18) 

In  olden  times  in  Holworthy 

Things  were  as  they  should  be; 
They  had  no  pretty  chambermaids 

To  bring  them  toast  and  tea; 
No  winsome  voices  waked  them  up, 

No  knocking  soft  and  shy, 
In  fact  there  were  no  Goodies  then 

In  Holworthy,  H'y! 

Fame  has  it  that  once  on  a  time 

One  came  to  sweep  the  floor, 
To  sweep  out  nooks  and  corners  that 

Were  never  swept  before; 
They  tied  their  sheets  and  handkerchiefs, 

And  when  the  Moon  was  high. 
They  let  her  down  from  Number  Eight, 
H'y. 

They  had  no  need  of  Morning  Bell, 

A  Greek  of  strangest  amble 
Kept  in  his  room  some  lusty  fowls 

To  lay  eggs  for  his  scramble; 
And  every  day  at  rosy  dawn 

There  rose  a  raucous  cry 
From  Sophocles'  hennery 

In  Holworthy,  H'y. 

Before  the  days  of  shower  baths 
Each  man  would  take  his  cup, 

And  hie  hun  to  the  College  pump, 
And  there  he'd  fill  it  up; 

42 


And  if  by  chance  in  smnmer  time, 

The  College  well  ran  dry, 
They  did  n't  wash  themselves  at  all 

In  Holworthy,  H'y. 

•  ••••* 

So  when  I  'm  trying  for  a  job 

As  President  or  King, 
And  people  ask  me  who  I  am, 

I  don't  say  anything; 
But  when  they  ask  me  where  I'm  from, 

I  simply  answer,  "WTiy, 
I  used  to  live  in  Holworthy, 
H'y!" 

Thorvald  S.  Ross  '12, 


FATHER'S   SOLILOQUY 

Blow  all  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums, 

Let  every  heart  be  gay! 
Our  William-Boy  is  home  to  spend 

His  Christmas  Holiday. 
I  like  his  tales  of  Cambridge  town  — 

Good  Lord!  how  time  does  run; 
For  WiUie's  Class  is  Nineteen-Twelve 

And  mine  was  Eighty-One ! 

He  tells  us  all  about  his  work, 

And  what  the  ''Hours"  mean, 
And  how  he  cut  his  Nine  O'clock, 

And  how  he  saw  the  Dean! 
—  He  never  heard  of  Censure  Marks 

He  never  had  to  run 
And  see  Miss  Harris,  or  "C.  J.".  .  . 

Alas  for  Eighty-One! 

And  after  dinner  he  \\411  sit 

And  talk  of  Boston's  bars, 
And  poUsh  off  my  '50  Port 

And  Uncle  Jim's  cigars. 

43 


But  Jim,  he  sniggers  in  his  sleeve. 

And  I  rebuke  my  son. 
—  He  does  n't  dream  the  Adams  House 

Was  there  in  Eighty-One ! 

He  tells  about  the  feeble  pranks 

His  fellow  striplings  play; 
I  shake  my  head  —  but  I  recall 

The  Med.  Fac.'s  golden  day! 
He  never  froze  the  College  bell 

Nor  fired  off  the  gun 
That  stands  on  Cambridge  Common  still  - 

Alas  for  Eighty-One! 

He  notes  my  bald  and  shiny  pate, 

He  smiles  at  Uncle  Jim  — 
He  does  n't  know  that  Forty-Three 

Will  think  the  same  of  himl 
We  know  our  hopes  are  mostly  dead 

And  life  is  nearly  done. 
We  '11  read  the  legend  soon  enough 

Hicjacet  —  Eighty-One! 

And  yet,  I  know  that  Youth  is  Youth 

Though  ages  intervene; 
My  heart 's  as  young  as  Willie's  yet 

With  thirty  years  between ! 
It  makes  me  feel,  to  hear  him  talk, 

That  Life  has  just  begun, 
He  looks  ahead  to  Twelve  —  and  I, 

Once  more  —  to  Eighty-One. 

H.  W.  H.  POWEL,  JR.,  '09. 

IN  MEMORIAM  P.  H. 

•  ••••• 

"  Good  sir,  the  Pequot  House  is  burnt 
A  twelvemonth  since,  ah  me ! " 
Up  sprang  the  Ancient  Graduate 
"What's  that  you  say?"  quoth  he. 

44 


And  then  he  turned,  and  sighed,  and  let 

His  vagrant  fancy  stray 
Back  to  the  Eden  Garden  of  Youth, 

The  joys  of  Yesterday. 

The  moon  that  casts  across  the  stream 

Her  swale  of  silvery  light, 
The  whistling  freight  that  shakes  the  bridge, 

The  sounds  that  fill  the  night: 
Barouche  and  barge  and  knockabout. 

And  dusty  touring  car. 
And  all  the  goodly  company 

Around  the  Pequot  bar ! 

^A.h,  tell  me  not  this  goodly  House 

Has  vanished  out  of  view^. 
The  Pequot,  noblest  link  that  bound 

The  Crimson  and  the  Blue! 
If  this  be  so,  let  honest  tears 

Imbue  the  fatal  place; 
WtiEit  profits  now  the  Xight  Before, 

And  what  the  whole  blame  Race?" 

Harford  W.  H.  Powel,  jr.,  '09. 


THE   GAME 

Like  the  rush  of  the  surf  on  a  sandy  shore 
Comes  the  charge  of  the  team  dowm  the  field; 

Like  a  wall  of  frail  sand  that  is  swept  by  storm 
Their  opponents  waver  and  yield. 

Like  a  dance  of  wild  praise  to  a  heathen  god 
The  snake  dance  goes  v/inding  below. 

And  the  banners  flare  clear  from  the  crimson  stands 
To  rival  the  sunset's  glow. 

K.  B.  MURDOCK,  '16. 

45 


"HELLO" 

I  PASSED  you  in  the  Yard  today, 

On  Harvard  Hall  the  bell  rang  mellow; 

Oh  yes,  I  bowed  and  fled  away, 
Just  callmg  out  a  hasty  ''hello." 

I  've  known  your  face  since  Freshman  year, 
You  always  seemed  a  decent  fellow, 

Of  course  you  are  n't  quite  in  my  sphere, 
But  still  I  grant  a  hasty  "hello." 

If  years  now  rushing  on  so  fleet 

Show  payroll  checks  are  signed  by  you; 

Will  I  say  "hello"  when  I  greet, 
Or  a  submissive  "how  d'  you  do?" 

P.  J.  Roosevelt,  '13. 


BALLADE  OF  HARVARD   SQUARE 

Back  you  are  come  at  the  summer's  end, 

You  with  the  tan  from  an  August  sky, 
Back  to  the  Square  the  processions  wend. 

The  Square  that  was  empty  last  July. 
"What  did  you  do?"  is  the  first  glad  cry, 

"Where  are  you  rooming?"   the  distant  hail, 
"  What  has  that  Freshman  come  to  buy?" 

This  is  the  end  of  the  summer's  trail ! 

Here  to  the  Square  you  have  come  to  spend. 

Freshman,  far  from  maternal  eye, 
Wealth  that  will  make  you  many  a  friend. 
Whose  credit  will  later  cost  you  a  sigh. 
But  these  are  the  safest  friends,  say  I, 
Who  help  to  swell  your  monthly  mail  — 
They  are  glad  to  meet  you,  Sir   (no  lie !)  — 
This  is  the  end  of  the  summer's  trail! 
46 


'Subway  to  Park"  is  the  winter  trend  — 

The  cuisines  of  France  and  Italy, 
And  the  wines  of  both  in  finest  blend, 

And  the  beer  of  student  Germany, 
These,  ah  these,  shall  come  bye  and  bye, 

Meanwhile,  where  did  you  loaf  and  sail? 
The  dreary  Square  is  alive  —  for  why? 

This  is  the  end  of  the  summer's  trail! 

Envoi 

Harvard  Square!  How  the  time  does  fly! 

Then  over  the  summer  draw  a  veil. 
The  new  loves  beckon,  the  old  loves  die.  .  .  . 

This  is  the  end  of  the  summer's  trail! 

W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernandez,  'io. 


BALLADE  OF  CHRISTMAS  VACATION 

"  God  rest  ye  merrie  gentlemen. 

Let  nothing  you  dismay! "  —  Carol. 

The  "Hours"  are  done,  and  you  may  go 

Over  the  Bridge  and  far  away. 
To  taste  of  Brut  and  fine  Bordeaux, 

To  quite  forget  grim  yesterday, 
When  at  your  desk  you  had  to  stay. 

And  oil  was  burned  long  after  ten  — 
The  Marks  are  in,  your  fears  allay, 

God  rest  ye  merrie  gentlemen! 

Perhaps  you  may  return  on  "Pro," 

Meanwhile  let  all  the  tunes  be  gay. 
Whichever  way  the  wind  may  blow 

You've  earned  your  little  holiday; 
Let  restless  feet  now  homeward  stray. 

The  flesh-pots  lure  you  once  again, 
For  after  work  must  follow  play  — 

God  rest  ye  merrie  gentlemen  I 

47 


The  world  is  but  a  fleeting  show, 

The  Season  cannot  last  for  aye, 
And  ere  the  candles  flicker  low, 

And  fond  "farewells"  are  left  to  say, 
Make  haste,  unless  with  heart  of  clay 

You  pass  forever  from  her  ken  — 
Then,  while  the  mistletoe  hath  sway, 

God  rest  ye  merrie  gentlemen! 

Envoi 

Farewell !    Let  nothing  you  dismay, 

(The  Mid- Years  drowse  within  their  den) 

And  when  the  dawn  breaks  cold  and  gray  — 
God  rest  ye  merrie  gentlemen! 

W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernandez,  'io. 


VOICES  IN  THE  FALL 

Hey  Sport,  any  ole  clothes?    I'll  buy! 

(It's  time  you  was  gettin'  a  suit!) 
An  overcoat?    Shure!    Don't  be  shy! 
Hey  Sport,  any  ole  clothes?    I'll  buy! 
If  you  want  the  best  prices,  this  guy 

Will  pay  'em.    What,  nothing?    Aw,  shoot! 
Hey  Sport,  any  ole  clothes?    I'll  buy! 

(It's  time  you  was  gettin'  a  suit!) 

Fresh  flowers  to  wear  to  the  game! 

Here  lady,  Har'vud  or  Yale? 
What,  not  wearin'  any?    For  shame! 
Fresh  flowers  to  wear  to  the  game ! 
Aw,  Har'vud?    Yep !    Carnations  claim 

The  victory.    Vi  'lets  get  stale. 
Fresh  flowers  to  wear  to  the  game  I 

Here,  lady,  Har'vud  or  Yale? 

48 


Fares !    All  aboard  there?    Let  'er  go ! 

(These  "show"  crowds,  they  give  me  a  pain!) 
Step  up  in  front,  don't  be  so  slow. 
Fares!    All  aboard  there?    Let  'er  go! 
Ye-es!     Subway  to  Park!     (V.Tiat's  the  show? 

Conductor  's  a  snap?    Think  again.) 
Fares!    All  aboard  there?    Let'  er  go! 

(These  ''show"  crowds,  they  give  me  a  pain!) 
W.  G.  Tinckom-Ferxaxdez,  'io. 


THE  MARKET  PLACE 

Sons  of  this  younger  day, 

Standing  irresolute,  slow. 
Longing  to  up  and  away, 

Fearing  to  venture  and  go, 

Info  this  quiet  and  rest.  .  .  . 

Hark  to  it,  clarion- shrill.  .  ,  ! 
Cometh  the  call  to  the  test, 

The  trying  of  mettle  and  will; 

Cometh  the  call  to  the  fight, 
Willing  or  no,  lue  must  face. 

Bartering  life  for  might. 

The  call  of  the  Market  Placet 

So  swiftly  June  came  on,  this  year! 

We  sit  in  the  slow  afternoon, 
And  dream  upon  the  beauty  here 

That  we  must  leave  behind  us  soon; 
The  elm  shade  on  the  old  red  walls. 

The  doves'  low  music  in  the  eaves, 
The  golden  mist  of  sun  that  falls 

In  slanting  splendor  through  the  leaves. 


49 


The  Yard  stands  as  the  Yard  has  stood 

A  hundred  and  a  hundred  years, 
Watching  the  sons,  each  newer  brood 

That  tries  and  wins  and  disappears. 
Above,  unchanging  and  serene. 

Surrounded  by  her  wide-flung  gates, 
All  powerful  and  all  unseen. 

The  Kindly  Mother  sits  and  waits. 

Robert  Emmons  Rogers,  '09. 


FROM  AN  ODE  TO  HARVARD 

"Often  we'd  walk  in  town, 
Thereby  less  idly  to  be  missing  classes; 
And  often  in  or  out  we  'd  wait  on  Harv^ard  Bridge 

to  see 
A  gull  that  caught  the  sunlight  overhead; 
Or  a  crew  that  sped 

Symmetrical;  or  a  single  shell  slide  under,  narrow 
As  an  arrow,  — 
And  watch  the  rower,   his  white  flesh   turning 

brown. 
Bending  his  back,  his  arm,  his  knee. 
Spending  his  brawn,  his  muscle,  and  his  marrow 
Close  with  his  heart  to  ply 
The  quiet  swiftness  of  his  revelry. 
Sending  his  oar  as  with  a  wing  to  fly; 
Later  we'd  watch  the  western  sky, 
With  poppies  hung  from  head  to  feet, 
Go  feasting  to  his  many-tapered  bed. 
Where  restless  he  would  lie 
On  the  scattered  golden  sheet. 
And  then  at  last,  deep 
In  a  great  ecstasy. 
Would  fall  asleep. 

Closing  in  tranquil  clouds  of  night,  like  a  petal  in 
the  grasses; 

50 


Or,  later  still,  we'd  see 

That  bayonet-row  of  lights, 

March  by  the  River  Charles,  patrol  by  many  a 

home 
The  huddling  heights 
Of  Boston  town, 
And  lead  w^here,  like  the  crystal  vision  of  a  camp, 

looked  down 
The  ancestral  Dome." 

Witter  Bynner,  '02. 


IF  I  WERE  A  FRESHMAN 

Ir  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  not  set  my  mind  on 
the  question,  ''What  can  Harv^ard  College  do  for 
me?  "  as  much  as  I  would  set  my  mind  on  the  ques- 
tion, "What  can  I  do  for  Har\'ard  College?"  All 
life  long  the  distinction  between  little  men  and  big 
men  follows  closely  the  one  or  the  other  of  these 
two  attitudes  toward  the  community. 

If  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  make  up  my  mind 
that  before  I  left  Harv^ard  College  I  would  try  to 
leave  my  mark  upon  that  institution  and  commu- 
nity of  men.  I  would  help  to  mold  its  ideas  of 
progress.  I  would  endeavor  to  live  up  to  Harv^ard's 
best  traditions,  but  I  would  also  have  a  part,  if  I 
could,  in  ending  traditions  outgrown  or  not  founded 
on  merit  and  in  establishing  new  thoughts  and  cus- 
toms worthy  to  become  traditions. 

If  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  insist,  to  myself 
and  to  all  others,  that  of  all  the  traditions  of  Har- 
vard none  are  more  valuable  than  that  which  gives 
to  each  man  the  right  to  his  individual  growth.  In- 
stitutions or  social  customs  are  not  to  be  held  of  high 
value  if  they  produce  only  pattern-men,  who  affect 
one  style  of  clothing,  and  manner  of  holding  an  um- 
brella, and  turn  of  thought;  men  who  are  content 
in  their  adaptation  to  a  rather  pleasant  and  blame- 

51 


less  model.  These  are  not  large  figures  in  college, 
nor  will  they  become  large  figures  out  of  college. 
Therefore  if  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  set  my  face 
like  flint  against  temptations  to  become  an  imitator 
or  to  accept  thoughts  or  manners  or  customs  in 
which  I  did  not  believe.  I  would  try  to  avoid  an 
attempt  to  tie  the  game  with  any  respectable  gen- 
eral average  —  men  Vv^ho  are  admirable,  brave,  con- 
servative, a  little  lacking  in  initiative,  in  originality, 
in  spirited  attacks  upon  life,  and  willingness  to  go 
forward,  unless  invited  onto  the  firing  line.  I  would 
make  my  attempt  an  attempt  to  pass  that  average. 
I  would  say  that  a  tie  would  be  a  defeat. 

If  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  begin  training  for 
life  as  if  life  were  a  game  in  which  every  nerve  and 
fiber,  every  atom  of  biceps,  bone  and  brain  counted 
toward  a  winning.  If  I  investigated  and  found  that 
the  men  who  had  been  out  in  business,  professional 
or  public  life,  and  were  winning,  had  marked  alcohol 
off  their  diet  list,  I  would  mark  it  off  mine. 

If  I  found  that  men  who  were  winning  had  not 
been  the  kind  to  handicap  themselves  by  the  dis- 
eases, the  waste  of  time  and  loss  of  their  rights  to 
the  best  in  womanhood,  all  of  which  punish  those 
men  who  barter  much  of  the  future  for  a  little  of  the 
present,  then  I  would  keep  straight,  not  only  for  an 
ideal  but  also  to  be  in  training  for  the  game  of  life. 
I  would  not  think  of  self-restraint  solely  as  a  measure 
of  "being  good";  I  would  also  think  of  it  as  some- 
thing which  would  insure  me  against  ''going  off  my 
form"  and  ''being  slowed  down."  I  would  expect 
self-restraint  would  help  me  to  "keep  playing  all 
the  time"  and  to  "follow  the  ball." 

If  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  be  interested  and 
active  in  the  social  and  athletic  side  of  college  life, 
but  I  think  I  would  put  scholarship  first. 

I  would  put  scholarship  first  because  most  men 
agree  that  scholarship  ought  to  be  the  first  business 
of  a  college  and  the  first  business  of  a  college  man. 

52 


As  soon  as  possible  I  would  draw  a  line  between  real 
scholarship  and  the  many  things  which  students  — 
and,  unfortunately,  many  teachers  —  often  look 
upon  as  scholarship.  I  would  try  to  tip  over  the 
idea  that  scholarship  is  attendance  at  lectures.  It 
is  not  scholarship ;  it  is  a  piece  of  routine.  Or  faith- 
ful writing  of  notes  in  a  green-edged  notebook.  It 
is  not  scholarship;  it  is  the  labor  of  the  clerk  or 
the  stenographer.  Or  learning  by  rote  the  lec- 
turer's or  the  textbook  writers'  ideas,  loading  them, 
for  a  brief  period  into  the  brain  as  one  loads  goods 
into  a  vehicle.  It  is  not  scholarship ;  it  is  a  piece  of 
fetch  and  carry.  Or  setting  the  mind  on  getting 
high  marks.  It  is  not  scholarship.  It  is  a  rough 
measure  of  distinction.  These  things  may  be  ex- 
cellent, but  they  are  not  scholarship. 

Scholarship  is  more.  Scholarship  is  not  alone 
the  accumulation  of  facts  and  the  reception  of  other 
men's  thoughts.  Scholarship  is  the  use  of  facts, 
the  use  of  other  men's  thoughts.  Any  scholarship 
wliich  Tvill  interest  a  healthy  young  man  must  be  a 
sportier  game  than  writing  and  reading  notes  in  a 
green-edged  notebook.  Any  scholarship  worth  the 
name  is  an  expression  of  self.  If  I  were  a  Freshman 
I  would  try  to  grab  some  course  out  of  an  instruc- 
tor's hands  and  run  away  with  it.  I  would  acquire 
the  instructor's  set  of  facts  and  add  a  few  he  had  not 
captured.  I  would  try  to  have  some  scalps  of  knowl- 
edge at  my  belt  which  did  not  hang  to  his.  And 
then  I  would  use  facts  and  other  men's  thoughts  to 
jump  the  fences  of  the  course  and  dig  into  new 
ground.  If  the  instructor  were  tr^dng  to  teach  me 
the  history  of  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Republic  I  would 
learn  the  histor>^  of  the  fall,  but  I  would  also  want 
to  compare  it  with  the  fail  of  all  other  large  repub- 
lics. It  is  not  inconceivable  that  a  Freshman  who 
started  out  to  do  this  might  arrive  at  some  new, 
clear  conclusion  of  his  own  which  would  one  day  save 
his  own  Republic  from  a  fall.    If  I  were  a  Freshman 

53 


I  would  bcp^n  to  make  my  brain  not  merely  a  re- 
ceptive  vessel.  I  would  practice  true  scholarship  a 
little  in  order  to  make  it  a  prodtictlve  machine. 

If  I  were  a  Freshrnan  I  would  try  to  know  the  heart 
and  head  of  every  freshman  in  sight.  There  may 
be  two  kinds  of  men  —  those  who  can  contribute 
something  to  you  and  those  to  whom  you  can  con- 
tribute. The  first  of  these  \\t11  help  you.  But  so 
will  the  second.  The  snob  does  not  see  this.  He  is 
always  a  tailenden  He  never  seeks  the  society  of 
a  man  unless  he  thinks  that  man  can  give  him  an. 
advantage.  Therefore  he  is  always  clutching  at 
somebody's  coat-tails.  The  snob  is  a  cheat  He  is 
a  cheat  because  he  wants  to  gain  more  in  acquaint- 
ance than  he  can  give.  Only  whole  men  feel  that 
they  can  afford  to  give  a  little  more  than  they  gain. 
You  can  usually  pick  out  the  men  who  are  sure  of 
their  position  because  such  men  always  seem  to  afford 
acquaintances  which  the  snob  does  not  dare  to  risk- 

If  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  pay  Less  attention 
to  dubs  than  clubs  paid  to  me.  A  club's  affairs  are 
none  of  your  business  until  you  are  a  member. 
Even  when  invited  to  join  a  dub  I  would  not  join 
it,  no  matter  how  attractive  il  seemed,  until  I  found 
out  whether  it  w^as  a  real  club,  maintained  for  the 
exchange  of  wholesome  companionship,  or  a  mere 
device  to  justify  a  hatband  and  create  a  set  of  social 
distinctions  foreign  to  the  spirit  of  America  and 
Harvard  College.  Any  so-called  club  wiiidi  is  so 
effeminate  and  silly  that,  had  the  college  been 
made  up  of  only  cow-punchers,  or  Gloucester  fisher- 
men, or  the  Canadian  mounted  police,  or  clean  young 
railroad  men,  it  would  have  been  wiped  out  of  exist- 
ence long  ago,  is  not  worth  a  minute  of  your  time. 

If  I  were  a  Freshman  I  would  have  unfailing 
loyalty  —  loyalty  to  my  class,  to  my  college,  and 
above  all  to  my  own  convictions. 

I  would  try  to  stand  up  in  my  own  shoes.  Har- 
vard College  can  do  much  for  you.    If  you  are  any 

54 


good  at  all  you  will  be  able  to  do  much  for  Harvard 
College. 

Richard  Washburn  Child,  '02. 


HARVARD  AND   THE  NATION 

That  Harvard  should  always  be  a  national  uni- 
versity, and  be  recognized  as  such  throughout 
America,  is  a  desire  that  finds  frequent  expression 
among  Harvard  men.  This  desire  is  often  imper- 
fectly defined,  springing  from  a  vague  though  loyal 
feeling  that  somehow  or  other  it  is  better  for  the 
institution  to  be  national  than  local.  But  whether 
the  national  quality  is  to  be  preferred  to  the  geo- 
graphical diversity  of  students  or  teachers,  to  the 
resulting  atmosphere  or  tone  of  the  university,  to 
the  pervasiveness  of  its  influence,  or  merely  to  its 
primacy  as  the  oldest  or  best,  is  not  always  consid- 
ered. It  may  be  well  for  Harvard  men  to  define 
their  vague  conceptions  on  this  subject,  and  to  set 
up  an  ideal  for  their  university  toward  which  they 
may  work,  and  which  may  be  gradually  realized. 

First  of  all  let  us  consider  in  what  sense  Harvard 
can  already  be  regarded  as  a  national  university, 
if  not  as  the  national  university. 

There  is,  to  start  with,  the  primacy  in  age,  which 
carries  with  it  the  advantages  of  precedence  on 
occasions  of  intercollegiate  solemnity  or  festivity, 
and  hence  often  the  right  to  speak  for  the  national 
interests  of  education  and  scholarship  —  a  comfort- 
able advantage  when  combined  mth  intellectual  and 
spiritual  leadership,  but  otherwise  an  insecure  title 
to  respect.  In  fact,  in  the  matter  of  years  alone,  if 
Harvard's  sister  university  of  Mexico  should  within 
the  next  generation  take  new  life  and  flourish  as 
Harvard  has  done  in  the  last,  a  negligible  exception 
to  Harvard's  primacy  in  the  New  World  might  well 
turn  into  an  effective  denial  of  it. 

55 


In  the  next  place,  looking  again  to  the  past,  Har- 
vard has  countless  indelible  associations  with  the 
history  and  literature  of  the  country,  and  these  asso- 
ciations give  the  university  of  today,  entirely  apart 
from  its  intrinsic  merits,  an  inherited  advantage,  so 
to  speak,  over  new  institutions,  and  over  those  which 
have  flourished  in  times  or  places  that  have  hap- 
pened to  be  less  significant  for  the  nation.  Harvard 
is  already  a  national  monument,  and  such  it  will 
always  be.  But,  fortunately  for  the  country.  Har- 
vard is  competing  with  many  similar  monuments, 
now  in  the  making.  If  they  are  less  interesting  and 
venerable  now,  they  will  not  necessarily  seem  so  in 
the  perspective  of  future  centuries.  Indeed,  the 
finished  monument,  however  stately,  is  not  the  figure 
to  represent  the  ideal,  national  Harvard  of  today 
or  tomorrow,  but  rather  the  living  oak,  of  which  it 
may  be  said,  as  Sir  Walter  Mildmay  said  of  John 
Harvard's  own.  college  at  Cambridge,  "I  have  set  an 
Acorn,  which,  when  it  becomes  an  Oake,  God  alone 
knows  what  will  be  the  fruit  thereof." 

There  are  those  who  believe  that  a  university 
situated  at  the  geographical  or  political  center  of 
the  country  would  be  more  favorably  placed  with 
a  view  to  its  becoming  national  than  one  which  was 
remote  from  either  of  those  centers.  Such  an  in- 
stitution would  undoubtedly  tend  to  be  less  under 
the  control  of  provincial  influences,  though  whether 
its  own  influence  would  radiate  far  is  an  entirely 
different  matter.  For  it  is  by  excellence  as  a  seat 
of  learning  and  culture,  more  than  by  any  circum- 
stance of  location,  that  the  national  quality  of  a 
university's  influence  wdll  be  determined.  Indeed 
it  is  quite  possible  that  a  university  in  which  pro- 
vincial influences  were  strong  should  by  its  excel- 
lence attract  its  teachers  from  so  wide  a  territory  as 
to  make  it  far  more  influential  throughout  the  coun- 
try, and  far  better  entitled  to  speak  for  the  country 
in  matters  of  education  and  scholarship,  than  an 

56 


institution  relatively  free  from  local  color  which 
might  be  established  at  the  geographical  or  political 
center.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  local  and 
provincial  associations  of  Harvard  have  been  among 
the  largest  factors  in  promoting  the  resort  of  stu- 
dents from  other  parts  of  the  country.  The  student 
from  the  middle  states,  from  the  south,  or  from  the 
west,  who  chooses  to  come  to  Harvard,  is  probably 
influenced  quite  as  much  by  the  desire  to  come  in 
contact  with  New  England  influences,  and  with 
local  associations  of  Cambridge  and  Boston,  as  by 
Harvard's  advantages  in  the  special  subjects  of 
instruction  which  engage  his  interest.  This  argues 
no  lack  of  loyalty  to  his  own  city  or  state,  but  a 
praiseworthy  desire  to  enlarge  his  experience  and 
broaden  his  views.  Deprive  any  of  the  old  eastern 
universities  of  their  most  local  and  provincial 
characteristics,  and  a  large  share  of  their  attrac- 
tion for  the  outsider  is  gone. 

That  because  of,  or  in  spite  of,  strong  local 
and  provincial  associations  Harvard  has  attained, 
through  exceUence,  to  a  national  position,  hardly 
needs  to  be  argued.  Through  President  Eliot's 
leadership,  Harvard  has  been  the  guiding  influence 
in  educational  theory  throughout  the  country  dur- 
ing the  last  forty  years,  and  this  statement  applies 
fully  as  much  to  elementary  and  secondary  educa- 
tion as  to  higher  education,  if  not  more.  Anyone 
who  visits  the  public  schools  of  the  western  states 
cannot  help  being  struck  with  the  fact  that  there 
is  more  imquestioning  acceptance  of  the  principles 
on  which  the  elective  system  is  based  in  that  part 
of  the  country,  and  much  less  reactionary  agitation, 
than  in  the  east.  One  has  only  to  note  the  remark- 
able geographical  distribution  of  members  of  the 
Har\^ard  faculty  ^  with  reference  to  the  college  in 
which  each  member  took  his  first  degree,  and  es- 

1  See  Harvard  Bulletin,  Vol.  lo,  No.  17,  January  29, 
1908. 

57 


pecially  the  number  of  graduates  of  other  colleges 
holding  important  administrative  positions  at 
Harvard,  to  see  that  the  university  is  anything  but 
local  or  provincial  in  scholarship  and  administra- 
tion. Even  as  regards  the  resort  of  students  from 
different  parts  of  the  country,  Harvard  has  already 
a  clear  title  to  be  called  a  national  university.  The 
geographical  distributions  of  its  students  this  year, 
adopting  the  classification  of  the  Commissioner  of 
Education,  is  as  follows:  North  Atlantic,  2931 ;  South 
Atlantic,  120;  North  Central,  484;  South  Central,  88; 
Western,  140;  dependencies  and  foreign  countries, 
155.  The  number  of  students  from  the  North 
Atlantic  section,  consisting  of  the  New  England 
states.  New  York,  New  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania, 
is  made  up  as  follows:  from  Massachusetts,  1941; 
from  other  New  England  states,  311;  from  New 
York,  New  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania,  679.  The 
large  relative  resort  from  Massachusetts  and  New 
England  makes  it  evident  that  there  is  room  for 
much  further  progress  in  the  direction  of  national- 
izing the  resort  of  students  to  Harvard. 

One  of  the  most  important  standards  by  which  to 
test  the  national  quality  of  any  university  is  the 
pervasiveness  of  the  influence  it  exerts  through  the 
distribution  of  its  graduates.  In  this  respect  there 
is  no  institution  in  the  country  that  has  a  better 
right  to  be  called  national.  The  influence  of  Har- 
vard through  its  graduates  is  exerted  partly  by  their 
numerical  strength  in  different  parts  of  the  country, 
but,  in  a  much  more  important  sense,  by  the  leader- 
ship which  they  tend  to  maintain  in  public  and 
private  affairs.  In  all  parts  of  the  country  one 
finds  Harvard  men  conspicuous  in  the  support  of 
good  government,  and  especially  in  support  of  move- 
ments for  the  improvement  of  public  education. 
(One  is  tempted  to  prove  this  rule  by  citing  the  two 
or  three  most  flagrant  and  well-known  exceptions!) 
There  is  no  better  way  in  which  Harvard  men  can 

58 


show  their  loyalty  to  Harv^ard  than  by  supporting 
the  interests  of  education  in  all  grades,  from  the 
kindergarten  to  the  university,  in  the  communities 
to  which  they  belong.  And  this  kind  of  loyalty  can 
fairly  be  said  to  be  characteristic  of  Harvard  men 
in  different  parts  of  the  country.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting to  assemble  the  names  of  Harvard  men 
who  are  ser\dng  education  as  members  of  city  school 
boards,  or  as  leaders  in  civic  movements  for  school 
reform.  But  of  the  fact  that  Har\'ard  is  strongly  rep- 
resented in  this  field  no  one  who  reads  the  papers 
can  feel  any  doubt.  It  is  a  significant  fact  that  three 
members  of  the  new  Public  Utilities  Commission 
of  New  York  are  Harvard  men.  A  large  number  are 
also  in  service  as  district  attorneys  and  assistant 
district  attorneys  under  reform  administrations. 
The  Bulletin  recently  published  a  note  referring  to 
a  non-partisan  list  of  the  candidates  for  judgeships 
in  Cook  County,  Illinois,  from  which  it  appeared 
that  six  out  of  fourteen  men  in  this  list  were  grad- 
uates of  Harvard. 

In  speaking  of  the  support  of  education  in  other 
communities  by  Harvard  men,  I  have  referred  to 
their  action  as  public-spirited  citizens,  but  their 
support  also  takes  the  form  of  enlisting  as  teachers 
and  administrative  officers  in  other  institutions.  It 
is  in  higher  education  that  we  must  look  for  Har- 
vard's relatively  greatest  strength  in  this  respect  — 
several  of  the  great  state  universities  having  more 
than  twenty  Harvard  men  in  their  faculties,  and  at 
least  two  having  more  than  thirty.  Harvard  may 
regard  with  equanimity  this  strengthening  of  other 
universities  by  its  o^vn  graduates,  for  so  long  as 
Harv^ard  maintains  a  high  position  as  a  seat  of  learn- 
ing it  will  gain  more  students  from  the  mounting 
appreciation  of  higher  education  in  remote  com- 
munities than  it  \Adll  lose  through  their  diversion  of 
students  away  from  Harvard.  None  of  the  great 
endowed  universities  on  the  eastern  seaboard  can 

59 


compete  or  ought  to  compete  with  the  rapidly 
growing  and  improving  universities  of  the  west  and 
south  in  ser\'ing  the  bulk  of  the  local  population 
interested  in  higher  education.  They  may  reason- 
ably hope,  however,  to  attract  a  constantly  growing, 
if  relatively  small  fraction,  of  the  college  and  uni- 
versity students  in  those  regions. 

Harvard's  claim  to  be  recognized  as  a  national 
university  may  be  justly  based  upon  the  ground 
that  it  is  practically  unique,  in  this  country,  in  its 
emphasis  on  educational  standards,  both  for  admis- 
sion and  for  graduation.  The  present  isolation  of 
the  university  on  account  of  its  high  standards  and 
its  insistence  on  examinations  for  admission  has 
been  the  subject  of  recent  comment,  but  this  iso- 
lation is  simply  that  which  is  incident  to  all  leader- 
ship. One  has  only  to  travel  through  the  country 
to  observe  that  whatever  opinions  are  held  with 
regard  to  the  general  merits  of  Harvard  University, 
there  ',is  practically  only  one  opinion  among  teach- 
ers with  regard  to  its  standards.  In  fact,  there  is 
too  much  of  a  disposition  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
Harvard  College  is  inaccessible.  There  is  no  better 
service  that  Harv^ard  undergraduates  and  graduates 
can  do  for  the  university  than  to  emphasize  in  their 
respective  communities  Harvard's  accessibility  for 
the  most  promising  students  and  its  desire  to  get 
them  students  who  are  promising,  that  is,  with 
regard  not  only  to  scholarly  ability  but  also  to 
manners  and  moral  force.  Every  good  university 
will  serve  in  its  own  community  men  of  average 
ability,  or  less,  whose  proximity  makes  it  easy  for 
them  to  fulfill  the  particular  requirements  for  ad- 
mission in  each  case,  but  it  will  also  attract  from  a 
distance  the  kind  of  men  who  are  willing  to  make 
sacrifices  and  overcome  obstacles  for  the  sake  of 
obtaining  advantages  which  they  regard  as  peculiar 
to  the  institution  of  theh:  choice.  In  this  way  Har- 
vard is  getting,  and  may  hope  to  get  in  the  future, 

60 


in  steadily  increasing  numbers,  from  different  parts 
of  the  country  outside  of  New  England,  men  of 
more  than  average  ability  who,  because  of  the  process 
of  their  selection,  will  win  more  than  their  share 
of  success  and  distinction  in  college  life,  and  will 
contribute,  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  numbers, 
to  the  prestige  of  Harv^ard  when  they  return  to 
their  homes  for  professional,  business  or  public 
life. 

In  order  that  Harvard  College  may  continue  to 
attract  good  students  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
it  is  important  that  the  requirements  for  admission 
should  always  be  properly  related  to  the  work  of 
good  schools  every^v'here.  This  does  not  mean  that 
the  tests  of  mental  ability  should  be  lowered,  for 
they  might  conceivably  be  raised  in  some  subjects. 
It  means  that  Harvard  should  not  be  thro^Ti  out  of 
articulation  with  good  schools  by  requirements  that 
are  merely  pecuKar.  WTiether  the  content  and  ar- 
rangement of  study  programmes  in  schools  outside 
of  New  England  are  ideal  or  not,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  they  represent  fairly  well  what  is  demanded  by 
the  present  stage  of  educational,  social  and  economic 
development  in  the  communities  concerned.  If 
Harvard  is  to  have  a  share  in  that  development  it 
must  take  the  actual  product  of  good  schools,  sifting 
it  in  any  way  that  adequately  tests  ability  to  do 
college  work.  Fortunately  the  policy  of  the  faculty 
of  Arts  and  Sciences  during  the  last  few  years  has 
been  more  and  more  governed  by  these  considera- 
tions. Certainly  nothing  could  have  a  more  impor- 
tant bearing  on  the  national  influence  of  Harvard. 

The  prestige  which  Harv^ard  has  and  may  hope 
for  through  excellence  in  its  various  departments 
will  not  only  establish  its  claim  to  be  called  national, 
but  will  also  be  of  incalculable  service  to  higher  edu- 
cation in  other  parts  of  the  country  where  colleges 
and  universities  are  doing  the  best  they  can  to 
maintain  standards  in  communities  where  a  pres- 

6i 


sure,  that  is  often  irresistible,  is  put  upon  them  to 
keep  their  standards  low.  It  is  a  very  common 
thinf]j  to  hear  college  professors  and  school  teachers 
in  the  west  declare  that  although  the  certificate 
system  of  admission  to  college  is  the  only  practica- 
ble system  for  their  part  of  the  country  at  present, 
they  would  regard  it  as  a  misfortune  for  the  whole 
country  if  Harvard  should  abandon  its  system  of 
examinations  for  admission.  Nothing  can  be  more 
gratifying  for  a  Harvard  man  than  to  see  how  his 
university  is  thus  helping  to  hold  up  the  hands  of 
men  engaged  in  educational  work  throughout  the 
country,  and  how  often  Harvard  is  spoken  of  as  a 
national  possession,  in  the  prosperity  of  which  the 
whole  country  is  interested.  This  feeling  is  some- 
times shown  by  frank  criticism  of  policies  that  pre- 
vail at  Harvard.  Thus,  a  professor  in  a  small  west- 
ern college,  who  had  had  no  connection  with  Har- 
vard himself,  expressed  regret  that  the  department 
of  learning  with  which  he  was  connected  was  not 
better  maintained  at  Harvard.  It  was  not  right,  he 
said,  that  Harvard  should  have  anything  less  than 

a  first-rate  department  of and  a  first-rate  man  at 

the  head  of  it;  and  he  regretted  that  he  could  not 
advise  more  of  his  own  pupils  to  go  to  Cambridge. 

Harvard  men  themselves  are  often  imperfectly 
aware  of  the  service  to  scholarship  and  to  all  the 
higher  intellectual  interests  of  the  community  which 
Harvard  is  rendering.  The  time-honored  complaints 
about  the  ill-ordered  choice  of  college  courses,  the 
prevalence  of  "snaps"  and  the  conspicuous  frivoli- 
ties of  a  very  small  minority  of  students,  blind  the 
eyes  of  even  Harvard  men  to  the  real  strength  and 
domination  of  intellectual  interests  in  the  uni- 
versity. The  experience  of  members  of  the  Harvard 
faculty  who  have  taught  in  the  best  small  colleges 
in  the  country  has  been  that  even  in  the  large  ele- 
mentary courses  a  much  larger  amount  of  work 
can  be  had  from  Harvard  undergraduates  than  from 

62 


those  of  smaller  colleges.  One  Harvard  instructor, 
now  a  professor  in  an  excellent  New  England  col- 
lege (this  description  has  such  numerous  applica- 
tions as  to  conceal  very  effectively  the  identity  of 
the  person  referred  to)  remarked  that  although  he 
enjoyed  his  new  work  very  much  he  missed  ''the 
upper  third  of  his  Harvard  classes."  Another 
teacher  with  a  similar  experience  reported  that 
whereas  he  had  no  difficulty  in  appealing  to  the  m- 
tellectual  interests  of  a  substantial  majority  of  his 
Har\^ard  classes,  he  found  it  difficult  to  do  so  in 
the  small  college  where,  he  said,  a  professor  could 
hardly  hope  to  get  on  terms  of  intellectual  sympathy 
with  his  students  without  first  having  or  professing 
interest  in  their  athletic  sports. 

No  one  pretends  that  there  is  not  a  considerable 
minority  of  students  in  Harvard  College  whose 
minds  are  largely  preoccupied  throughout  their 
college  course  by  interests  outside  of  their  studies 
—  athletics,  social  activities  and  numerous  literary 
enterprises.  But  anyone  who  attends  Harvard 
alumni  gathermgs  cannot  help  being  impressed  by 
the  fact  that  however  strongly  these  preoccupations 
may  have  been  felt  during  their  undergraduate 
days,  most  Harvard  men,  at  the  end  of  then*  col- 
lege course,  carry  away  a  fairly  accurate  conception 
of  the  relative  value  of  intellectual  and  spiritual 
interests.  Though  they  are  keenly  mterested  in 
athletics,  and  often  outdo  the  undergraduates  in 
enjo>dng  the  delights  of  athletic  victory,  their 
deepest  interests  and  greatest  sacrifices  are  reser\^ed 
for  the  things  of  the  mind  and  the  spirit. 

For  dissemmating  a  better  knowledge  than  now 
exists  in  many  parts  of  the  country  concerning  the 
real  characteristics  of  Harvard,  the  graduates  of 
other  colleges,  who  come  to  Cambridge  for  graduate 
or  professional  study,  are  among  the  most  important 
agencies.  A  member  of  the  Har>^ard  faculty  who 
was  discussing  with  the  members  of  a  western  Har- 

63 


vard  club  the  real  supremacy  of  intellectual  interests 
at  Harvard,  and  also  the  essential  democracy  of 
Harvard's  influence,  was  afterwards  reproached  by 
one  of  his  hearers,  a  graduate  of  another  university 
who  also  held  a  Harvard  professional  degree,  for 
not  having  spoken  more  positively  and  emphatically 
about  Harvard's  advantages  in  these  respects. 
''Harv^ard  men,"  he  said,  ''cannot  appreciate  ade- 
quately the  best  advantages  of  Harvard  life,  because 
their  experience  has  been  limited  to  a  single  institu- 
tion." There  is  no  better  evidence  of  Harvard's 
national  character  than  its  capacity  for  enlisting 
such  loyalty  to  its  ideals  of  liberty  and  truth  in 
men  who  are  also  intensely  loyal  to  other  colleges. 

The  desire  to  make  Harvard  a  national  university 
springs  not  only  from  a  national  desire  for  its  glory, 
but  also  from  a  passionate  belief  that  Harvard  ideals 
can  be  of  service  to  the  American  democracy. 
However  we  may  interpret  our  ancestors'  principles 
of  liberty  and  equality,  there  can  be  no  doubt  w^hat- 
ever  that  American  society  has  grossly  undemocratic 
tendencies  which,  if  unchecked,  will  result  in  a 
stratified  classification  based  on  sordid  and  material- 
istic principles.  The  universities  and  colleges  of 
the  country  have  a  unique  opportunity  to  exhibit 
in  their  community  life  the  workings  of  that  pure 
democracy  under  which  men  advance  out  of  the 
general  mass  into  positions  of  usefulness  and  dis- 
tinction without  regard  to  anything  but  the  merits 
of  each  individual.  We  of  Harvard  believe  that  our 
community  is  giving  constant  illustrations  of  this 
process,  and  that  our  graduates  tend  to  spread  its 
influence  to  the  communities  in  which  they  live. 
Surely  Harvard  can  have  no  better  claim  to  be  known 
as  the  national  university  than  by  its  service  in  thus 
keeping  alive  the  principles  through  which  alone 
the  democratic  ideal  of  our  forefathers  can  be  pre- 
served and  more  and  more  nearly  realized. 

Jerome  D.  Greene,  '96. 

64 


PART  II 


HUMOR 


"Molder  of  wings  and  shield  of  truth, 
God  bless  you  Mother  Advocated' 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07,  Advocate. 


THE  MONTHLY  TO  THE  ADVOCATE 

As  custom  long  has  made  it  proper, 
On  birthday  of  mama  or  popper, 
For  infant  daughter  to  recite 
Some  poem  wise  and  recondite, 
So  Mother  Advocate,  your  daughter  — 
Since  blood  is  thicker  still  than  water  — 
A  laurel  sets  upon  your  pate 
And  rises  to  congratulate. 

So  many  years  have  rolled  their  course 
Since  half  by  guile  and  half  by  force 
My  tender  spirit  came,  to  light 
The  darkness  of  collegiate  night,  — 
So  long  an  age  has  passed,  I  say, 
That  you,  forever  young  and  gay, 
May  have  forgot  the  fatal  birth 
When  /  appeared  upon  this  earth. 
Ah,  you  were  young  and  fair,  I  ween, 
With  eyes  and  lips  of  chaste  nineteen  — 

The  following  canto  we  shall  skip, 
Remarking  that  there  's  many  a  slip 
Twixt  god  and  nymph  that 's  not  a  fall 
When  both  are  sprites  ethereal. 
And  having  spoke  of  Cupid's  deed, 
To  daughter's  woes  we  now  proceed. 

But,  Mother,  ever  young  and  mild, 

Turn  not  away  your  loving  child. 

Though  much  you  blame  and  long  you  rue 

This  unsought  imp  of  twenty-two. 

Ah,  who  would  guess  you  once  were  naughty, 

You  who  are  sixteen  at  forty? 

67 


Alas,  good  dame,  I  ne'er  was  young, 
But  born  with  serious  mien,  and  tongue 
That  lisped  in  Maeterlinckean  numbers, 
And  babbled  Browning  in  its  slumbers. 
And  gave  its  youth  strength  to  blow  its 
Dark  trumpet  for  Minor  Poets. 
Forever  have  I  borne  the  weight 
Of  all  the  troublous  tricks  of  Fate, 
Have  nurtured  Art  and  suckled  youths 
And  brought  to  men  eternal  truths. 
(In  Paris  go^vn  and  broidered  fichu, 
A  dozen  Truths  to  every  issue.) 
I  am  the  Monthly  and  I  come 
To  make  heads  buzz  and  voices  hum, 
For  twenty  years  I  seek  a  star 
Where  only  Httle  Monthlies  are, 
And  I  at  last  can  rest  content 
With  my  artistic  temperament. 

Mother,  I  weary  from  my  quest 

And  fain  would  seek  your  warm  young  breast. 

Give  me  your  old-time  cup  of  mirth, 

I  am  too  great  for  this  small  earth. 

Outside  the  eager  millions  throng 

For  me  to  tell  God  where  he 's  wrong. 


Dear  Mother  Advocate,  may  time 
Deal  gently  with  your  kindly  face. 

And  may  no  somber  shadows  climb 
To  veil  the  mirth,  the  blithesome  grace. 


You  point  us  not  to  infinite  heights, 

Yet  with  your  merry  hands  you  show 
The  pleasure  of  the  tiny  flights 
Before  the  giants  pinions  grow. 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07, 
68 


THE  W^ONG  SCENT 

A  COLD  shiver  passed  through  the  manly  frame 
oi  Mr.  Richard  Randolph  as  he  stood  before  an 
open  box  l>ing  upon  his  center  table  and  gazed 
with  perturbed  countenance  at  its  contents.  The 
hour  was  late;  that  is,  it  was  about  a  quarter  after 
six,  which  does  not  leave  much  time  to  spare  when 
one  is  due  at  a  dinner  at  seven,  and  must  dress  and 
get  into  Boston  from  Cambridge  within  the  hour. 
But  it  was  not  lack  of  leisure  that  disturbed  our 
friend;  in  fact,  he  claimed  on  ordinary  occasions  to 
be  able  after  long  practice  to  perform  his  toilet  and 
array  himself  in  evenmg  dress  in  the  ridiculously 
short  space  of  seven  minutes;  it  was  not  lack  of 
time,  I  repeat;  it  was  something  infinitely  worse. 

A  short  retrospection  on  our  part  will  be  neces- 
sary in  order  fully  to  understand  the  situation. 
L}TQg  upon  his  writing  table  w^as  an  invitation  from 
a  certain  society  leader  of  Boston,  asking  him  to 
dinner  upon  this  very  evening,  to  meet  a  young 
and  attractive  damsel  from  Balthnore  who  hap- 
pened to  be  visiting  her.  Richard  had  of  course 
joyfully  accepted,  and  then  as  carefully  dismissed 
the  whole  thing  from  his  mind  ^ith  his  usual  non- 
chalance, only  remembering  his  engagement  a  few 
moments  before  our  story  opens. 

"It's  lucky  I  happened  to  remember  that  dinner,'' 
he  remarked  mentally  as  he  endeavored  to  find  his 
dress  suit.  "Mrs.  Tyler  would  have  blackHsted 
me ! "  After  a  fruitless  search  in  his  chiffonier,  which 
failed  to  reveal  any  signs  of  the  aforesaid  wedding 
garments,  Mr.  Randolph  realized  vdth  a  sinking 
heart  that  this  being  his  first  appearance  in  society 
for  the  season,  since  it  was  early  in  the  autumn,  his 
evening  clothes  were  still  carefiilly  done  up  and  put 
away  in  a  box  at  the  top  of  his  closet.  "They'll  be 
ruinously  creased!  I  should  have  sent  them  to 
the  tailor's  ages  ago!"   he  ejaculated  as  he  hastily 

69 


carried  the  box  into  his  study  and  untied  it.  Then, 
as  he  removed  the  cover,  his  courage  departed  from 
him.  There  lay  his  poor  dress  suit,  creased  and  crum- 
pled. But  that  was  not  all;  a  strange  and  noisome 
odor  rose  from  the  box  and  filled  the  air  —  an  odor 
hated  of  all  men  —  a  perfume  like  the  mingling  of 
checkerberry,  kerosene,  and  Charles-River-flats-at- 
low-tide  —  the  odor  of  those  inventions  of  Satan 
that  women  put  in  men's  clothes  to  keep  out  the 
moths.  The  smell  floated  calmly  up  and  tickled  the 
nostrils  of  our  wretched  hero;  it  pervaded  the  room, 
hung  about  his  head  and  infected  his  person.  He 
was  paralyzed  with  horror.  He  remembered  how 
in  the  spring  he  had  told  the  ** goody"  to  put  away 
his  dress  clothes  for  him,  and  he  now  perceived  with 
what  thoroughness  she  had  performed  her  work. 
Her  very  words  on  that  occasion  returned  to  his 
mind:  *'Dar  now,  Marse  Randolph,  ise  done  fixed 
yo'  clo's  so  dey  ain't  no  kind  of  insec'  can  tech  'em. 
Ise  put  in  some  ob  my  'moth-balls'!"  And  he  recol- 
lected that  he  had  thanked  her  for  her  thoughtful- 
ness. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  found  that  it  was  just 
a  quarter  after  six.  At  first  he  thought  of  giving 
the  whole  thing  up  and  feigning  sudden  sickness; 
then  he  remembered  the  Baltimore  girl,  and  resolved 
to  go  at  all  hazards.  First,  he  subjected  the  clothes 
to  a  vigorous  beating;  then  he  hung  them  out  of  the 
window  and  let  the  autumn  breezes  fan  them  while 
he  got  ready  to  put  them  on.  Nevertheless,  after 
he  had  dressed,  the  clothes  seemed  as  odoriferous  as 
ever;  the  smell  was  absolutely  fiendish.  In  despera- 
tion, he  seized  an  atomizer  and  deluged  himself 
with  vaporized  cologne;  but,  strange  to  say,  this 
seemed  to  have  no  eft'ect  —  in  fact,  if  anything,  it 
appeared  to  put  an  edge  on  the  already  sufficiently 
penetrating  perfume. 

All  the  way  into  Boston  he  stood  on  the  front 
platform  with  his  coat  off  and  tried  to  air  himself, 

70 


and  as  he  felt  the  wind  whistling  through  his  coat 
tails,  while  the  car  buzzed  over  Han-ard  Bridge,  he 
began  to  feel  more  at  ease.  He  thought  of  the  beau- 
tiful girl  from  Baltimore,  and  reflected  that  he  had 
been  in  worse  predicaments  than  this  before,  and 
lived  through  them. 

Randolph  arrived  in  good  time,  and  was  intro- 
duced to  the  damsel  for  whom  the  dinner  was  given, 
and  then  followed  a  tete-a-tete,  during  which  he 
shuddered  and  tried  to  look  pleasant  by  turns.  To 
his  excited  imagination  the  room  seemed  already 
full  of  the  odor  of  ''moth-balls,"  and  he  waited  with 
feverish  anxiety  the  moment  when  it  should  be  dis- 
covered by  the  rest  of  the  company.  He  did  not 
have  long  to  wait.  Mrs.  Tyler  shortly  betrayed 
signs  of  nervousness. 

"I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  Tv^th  that  lamp!" 
she  exclaimed,  glancing  at  a  tall  piano  lamp  in  the 
comer.    Dick  w^as  on  the  qui  vive  in  an  instant. 

"Let  me  fix  it!"  he  suggested,  endeavoring  to 
get  as  near  it  as  possible.  The  lamp  proved  to  be  in 
a  fairly  normal  condition,  however,  and  Mrs.  Tyler 
apologized  for  the  unpleasant  odor,  saying  that  the 
lamps  were  always  getting  out  of  order.  Dick  mean- 
while mentally  hugged  himself  and  tried  to  turn 
the  conversation. 

The  host,  who  was  a  trifle  late,  now  entered,  and 
after  greeting  his  guests,  turned  to  his  wiie  with, 
**Er,  Mary,  what  is  this  pecuHar  odor?  Is  there 
anything  the  matter  v/ith  that  lamp?  Pray  have  it 
fixed  as  soon  as  possible." 

During  the  confusion  of  going  out  to  dinner, 
Richard  congratulated  himself  upon  his  escape,  yet 
quaked  with  apprehension  at  the  thought  of  what 
later  tortures  he  might  have  to  endure.  His  un- 
easiness was  not  diminished  when  he  found  himself 
placed  beside  the  girl  from  Baltimore. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  conversation  at  first, 
and  our  hero   flattered  himself   that   perhaps  his 

71 


trials  were  over,  but  the  hope  was  in  vain.    A  curious 
and  peculiarly  searching  perfume  began  to  make  it- 
self evident  most  unmistakably.     Dick  fairly  per- 
spired wdth  agitation,  being,  as  he  was,  absolutely 
helpless.    He  wished  the  house  would  catch  fire,  but 
this  was  improbable.      The  girl  from  Baltimore  was 
seized  with  a  fit  of  coughing,  which  did  not  improve 
matters.    The  hostess  beckoned  to  the  butler,  who 
carefully  examined  all  the  gas  jets  and  then  shook 
his  head  dolefully  at  her  from  the  pantry  door.    The 
guests  moved  a  trifle  uneasily.    Conversation  lan- 
guished.   The  servant  who  passed  Dick  the  soup 
turned  away  and  stifled  a  cough.    Someone  started  to 
tell  an  anecdote  about  General  Grant  and  forgot  what 
he  was  going  to  say  when  he  had  reached  his  descrip- 
tion of  how  "the  general  sniffed  the  powder-laden 
air,"  and  stopped  in  a  plainly  embarrassed  manner. 
Presently  there  came  a  dead  silence.    Dick  was 
racking  his  brains  for  a  pretext  to  excuse  himself, 
and  had  resolved  to  have  an  epileptic  fit  if  something 
did  not  happen  within  two  minutes.    Fortunately  or 
unfortunately,  something  did  happen.   He  was  seized 
with  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  sneeze.    He  felt  it 
coming  and  whipped  out  his  handkerchief  in  time  to 
save  himself,  but  to  his  horror  found  that  three 
little  white  balls  had  flown  from  his  pocket  at  the 
same  time,  and  were  now  rolling  and  bouncing  about 
the  table,  to  the  amusement  of  the  startled  com- 
pany.   For  a  mom.ent  there  was  silence,  then  fol- 
lowed an  hilarious  burst  of  laughter.    Dick,  seeing 
that  it  was  all  over,  laughed  confusedly  with  the 
others,  and  resolving  to  throw  himself  upon  the 
mercy  of  his  hostess,  got  up  and  told  the  whole  story 
of  his  sufferings  and  begged  to  be  forgiven.    His  ac- 
count of  the  matter  was  received  with  much  mirth, 
and  he  was  granted  complete  and  final  absolution 
by  all  present. 

''But  Mr.  Randolph  must  write  this  up  into  a 
story,"  cried  someone. 

72 


Scent, 


J  7j 


"Yes,  yes!"  resounded  on  all  sides. 
"But  what  shall  I  call  it?"  gasped  Dick. 
"Call  it,"  murmured  the  girl  from   Baltimore, 
glancing  slyly  at  our  hero,  "call  it  'The  Wrong 

Arthur  Train,  '96. 


THE  MAVERICK 

He's  the  maverick,  he, 

Wid  a  hand  that  is  free, 
And  a  foot  that  is  light  for  the  dancin'. 

Wid  the  girls  is  he  smart, 

Wid  his  hand  to  his  heart. 
And  an  eye  that  is  bright  in  the  glancin*. 

He 's  a  tongue  that  is  quick 

For  a  jest  or  a  trick. 
But  a  voice  that  is  soft  in  the  sighm', 

A  love  that  is  strong. 

And  a  hope  that  is  long, 
And  a  heart  that  is  true  till  the  dyin' ! 

Richard  J.  Walsh,  '07, 


AN  INTERNATIONAL  AFFAIR 

"Mr.  Rolfe,  what  is  the  time?"  inquired  Lady 
Mitford  rather  anxiously.  She  and  the  young  Amer- 
ican were  sitting  on  the  west  terrace,  feeding,  in  turn, 
themselves  and  two  splendid  peacocks  Ts-ith  tea  and 
cake.  Lady  Mitford  was  a  placid  old  woman,  quite 
contented  with  her  bridge,  her  orchids,  and,  occa- 
sionally, her  matchmaking;  she  had  the  unfortunate 
habit  of  going  to  sleep  at  dinner  parties  and  for- 
getting which  of  her  friends  were  divorced  and  which 
were  not.    Other\\dse  she  was  rather  clever.    Just 

73 


now  she  raised  her  lorgnette  to  see  how  far  the  clear- 
cut  shadows  of  the  oaks  had  crept  out  upon  the  bil- 
liard table  of  a  lawn. 

The  young  American,  sitting  easily  on  the  gray 
balustrade,  sv\nang  his  leg  thoughtfully  and  guessed 
it  was  about  six  o'clock. 

"Don't  be  lazy.  Look  at  your  repeater,  sir,"  in- 
sisted Lady  Mitford. 

''Well,  since  you  must  have  it,  it 's  exactly  four  and 
a  half  minutes  after  six,"  he  answered  resignedly. 

"Oxton  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time.  He's  due 
on  the  five-thirty,  and  I  sincerely  hope  they  met 
him." 

"TheDukeof  Oxton?" 

"Naturally.  Mr.  Rolfe,  I  want  you  to  help  me 
while  he's  here!" 

"My  life  is  yours  to  command,  dear  lady!" 

"No  nonsense!  What  I  want  is  this.  Before  Ox- 
ton  goes  Friday  week,  he  must  have  offered  himself 
to  Muriel!" 

"Is  he  really  going  to?" 

"That's  why  I  want  you  to  help  me.  Oh,  don't 
you  understand?     Stupid ! ' ' 

"A  light  faintly  glimmers  in  my  dull  brain.  My 
lord  is  to  be  given  every  opportunity  to  —  ah,  en- 
tertain Lady  Muriel,  while  I  —  while  /,  flirt  madly, 
persistently,  outrageously,  with  Doris!  That  right?  " 

"If  you  want  to  put  it  in  that  disagreeable  way, 
yes.    But  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Your  every  wish  is  my  law!"  observed  Rolfe, 
waving  his  tea-cake  like  a  plumed  hat.  "But  may 
I  be  permitted  to  venture  the  remark  that  perhaps 
Lady  Muriel  can't  hook  him?  —  pardon  my  gross- 
ness  —  I  mean  perhaps  Oxton  won't  happen  to  fall 
desperately  in  love  with  Lady  Muriel. " 

"When  a  man's  left  continually  alone  with  a 
charming,  eligible  girl  for  an  entire  week,  it  usually 
happens  that  he  does.  Besides,  they  like  each  other 
already.    They've  met,  of  course,  in  London." 

74 


"Exactly.  They  like  each  other.  Like  rarely 
changes  to  love,  sadly  but  truly." 

''Bosh!  Here  come  Muriel  and  Doris.  I  don't 
see  why  I  ever  in\dted  Doris  down  for  this  week 
an}^-ay.  Please  give  me  your  arm  and  take  me  to 
the  lift.  IMeet  Oxton  when  he  comes,  and  tell  bim 
I  never  wait  for  anybody  that's  late.  Thank  you." 
And  they  disappeared  into  the  house. 

Just  as  they  were  gone,  Doris  came  rushing  up 
the  steps,  followed  languidly  by  Lady  Muriel. 

''I  hope  they've  left  tea,"  said  Doris,  hungrily. 
"They  have.  And  cakes,  too,  plenty  of  them.  Why 
on  earth  did  they  all  skip  off  so?  I  don't  believe 
your  aunt  Ukes  me,"  she  continued,  pouring  two 
cups  and  eating  a  scone  whole. 

"Aunt  is  so  very  conserv'ative.  I  think  Ameri- 
cans are  a  little  beyond  her,  perhaps.  I  wonder  if 
Oxton  has  come?" 

"Oh,  Oxton.  The  duke  of  course?  I  am  interested 
in  him.  Just  think  —  a  real  hve  duke!  I  used  to 
see  lords  sometimes  at  Lenox,  but  a  duke  —  never! 
He's  vounoj,  is  n't  he,  and  awfully  handsome?  His 
pictures  certainly  are!" 

" Dear  child,  you're  quite  —  quite  mistaken.  He 
is  som.ewhere  over  thirty-hve  and  rather  stout  — 
such  an  ordinary  looking  person!  And  he  intensely 
dislikes  Americans." 

"The  old  brute!"  remarked  Doris,  feehngly. 

"Particularly  young  .Americans,"  continued  Lady 
Muriel,  carefully  examining  the  point  of  her  shoe. 

"He  does,  does  he?"  cried  Doris,  bristling.  ''I'll 
show  him!  Just  let  me  have  at  him  and  'blank 
be  him  who  first  cries'  aiid  so  forth!" 

"I'm  afraid,  love,  your  methods  wouldn't  be 
quite  successful  -^^ith  Oxton,"  cooed  Lady  Muriel, 
sweetly. 

"Look  here,  my  girl!"  said  Doris,  suddenly. 
"Here's  a  chance  to  show  your  sporting  blood. 
Did  n't  your  father  win  in  the  Derby  once?    Well, 

75 


now's  your  turn.  I'll  bet  that  pearl  brooch  j-ou 
liked  so  much  at  Tiffany's  last  fall  to  —  let's  see  — 
oh,  yes,  to  that  stunning  collie  of  yours  we  saw  this 
morning  that  I  can  get  Oxton  to  propose  to  me  within 
the  week!    Is  it  a  go?'' 

*'You're  foolish,  dear.  He  won't.  He  hates 
Americans." 

"Quitter!  Where  's  your  sporting  blood?  Come 
on!" 

Lady  Muriel  closed  her  long  eyes  and  thought 
that,  after  all,  this  young  thing  running  after  Oxton 
might  play  him  into  her  liand;  she  herself  would 
utilize  the  indifferent,  carefree,  maddening  st)de^^ 
in  contrast  to  the  crude  efforts  of  Doris.  After  all, 
he  hated  Americans,  and  it  might  be  better  so. 
Yes,  on  second  thought,  it  would. 

"Just  as  you  please,  child;  to  humor  your  fool- 
ishness, that's  all.  He's  evidently  come,  anyway. 
I'm  going  to  dress." 

"Oh,  I've  not  nearly  finished  tea  yet,"  answered 
Doris,  pouring  out  her  third  cup.    "Good-bye." 

"Don't  be  late,,  dear;  he  insists  on  punctuality," 
was  Lady  Muriel's  final  warning  as  she  drifted  into 
the  house. 

About  five  minutes  later  a  good-looking,  grizzled 
man  in  a  light  suit  and  carrying  a  cane  appeared  on 
the  steps  of  the  terrace  and  saw,  instead  of  the 
white-haired  old  lady  whom  he  expected,  a  very 
pretty  and  stylish  young  girl,  drinking  her  tea  in 
solitude  and  looking  very  much  at  home. 

As  he  came  up  she  glanced  brightly  up,  finished 
her  cake,  wiped  her  mouth,  and  then  observed: 

"You're  Oxton,  aren't  you?  They're  all  dress- 
ing for  dinner.    They  think  you've  come  already." 

"My  train  w^as  late.    You  are  —  ?" 

"Doris  Walters.  I'm  a  mere  American,  who  met 
Lady  Mitford  in  London.  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to 
have  told  you  that.  Lady  Muriel  said  you  hated 
Americans." 

76 


"Lady  Muriel?" 

"Yes.     Do  von?" 

"Do  I  what?" 

Doris  tapped  her  foot  impatiently. 

"The  question  is:  Do  you  hate  Americans?" 

The  duke  grinned. 

"No,"  he  said,  "only  when  they  wear  diamonds 
at  four  in  the  afternoon  and  talk  like  engine  whistles. 
Do  you  do  either  of  these  two  objectionable  things?  " 

"It's  now  seven.  I  am  dressed  as  I  was  at  four, 
and  vou  know  I  don't  talk  like  an  engine  whistle. 
Tea?'" 

"Thank  you." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  cold,  but  then  it's  still  much 
better  than  nothing.    Ever  been  in  .\merica?  " 

"Xo.  ^ly  experience  has  been  limited  to  the  im- 
ported article." 

"Of  course  you  know  our  ancestors  were  Indians 
and  that  we  hunt  buffalo  in  the  streets  of  New 
York?" 

"Of  course!" 

"You're  the  first  Englishman  to  whom  I've  made 
that  remark  that's  taken  it  correctly.  x\ll  the 
others  looked  scared  or  bored.  —  No,  you  can't 
have  another  cup,  but  you  may  have  one  more 
cake,  a  little  pink  one. —  No,  only  one. —  Here, 
put  back  that  scone!  If  you  don't  you '11  utterly 
spoil  your  appetite  for  dinner.  WTiich  reminds  me 
that  I  must  dress  instantly.  Shall  I  wear  pale 
pink  or  black?  " 

"  Pale  pink,  by  all  means.    It 's  my  favorite  color ! " 

"I  shall  wear  black.  Au  revoir!"  and  she  ran 
quickly  doTvm  the  terrace,  disappearing  toward  the 
south  ent^>^ 

Lady  :\Iitford  came  out  a  few  minutes  later  to 
find  him  eating  a  scone  in  profound  meditation. 

"Here  at  last!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  you  look 
bored  already!" 

"My   dear   Jane,"   he   said,  between  bites,    "I 

77 


can  truly  say  that  I  anticipate  a  most  delightful 
week!" 

*'Will  you  bring  me  my  coffee  on  the  balcony, 
my  lord?  It's  so  warm  in  here,  and,"  sotlo  voce,  "I 
can't  stand  Lady  Muriel's  piano  playing!" 

''With  pleasure,  Miss  Walters,"  answered  Oxton. 
''Two  liunps,  I  think,  and  a  little  liqueur?  Right? 
Here  it  is,  and  may  I  smoke  a  cigarette?" 

"You  may.  Isn't  the  moonlight  divine  on  the 
terrace?" 

*'Yes,"  he  said,  abstractedly,  as  he  lighted  his 
cigarette.    "Oh,  yes." 

"Come  over  here  to  the  railing.  You  can  see  the 
river  like  liquid  silver  among  the  trees.  Oh,  England 
is  beautiful,  is  n't  it?  WTiat  brand  are  you  smok- 
ing?   Ageptos?    Give  me  one,  please." 

"I  did  n't  know  you  smoked!" 

"Always,  when  Lady  Mitford  is  n't  around. 
She's  asleep,  isn't  she?  And  Benny 's  listening  to 
Muriel  with  his  soul  in  his  eyes." 

She  sat  down  and  leaned  her  white  arms  on  the 
cool  gray  stone. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  going  tomorrow,"  she  said,  and 
then,  "I  mean  I'm  glad,  avirfully  glad." 

"Why?"  He  sat  so  near  her  that  his  sleeve 
brushed  the  spangles  of  her  gown.  "Haven't  you 
enjoyed  every  minute?    Every  second?" 

"  I  've  enjoyed  myself  —  yes." 

"Answer  me.  Haven't  you  been  happier  than 
ever  before?" 

"What  an  absurd  question!"  she  began,  but  then 
she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  his  face.  With  a  slight 
shiver  she  suddenly  arose. 

"Doris!"  he  said  very  calmly,  and  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

"No,  you  mustn't!"  she  cried  eagerly  and  pas- 
sionately, yet  never  raising  her  voice.  "You  must- 
n't!   I  —  I  can't  be  your  wife!  I  can't  —  I  can't!" 

78 


''Why,  dear?" 

*'It's  impossible,  simply  impossible!  Oh,  of  all 
dreadful  things  this  is  the  worst!"  and  with  a  little 
sob  she  sank  do^\Ti  in  her  chair. 

''Is  it  —  anything  I  have  —  ? " 

"No,  no,  it's  my  fault;  all,  all  my  fault.  Oh, 
Lord  Oxton,  I've  been  a  very  mcked,  foolish  girl! 
I  bet  —  yes,  I  bet  —  do  you  realize  it?  —  I  bet 
Lady  Muriel  a  pearl  brooch  against  a  collie  dog  that 
you  would  propose  to  me  before  the  week  was  out! 
You  see,  I've  trifled  T\'ith  your  feelings  —  I've  done 
an  infamous  thing." 

He  stood  stiff  and  silent. 

*'You  know  now  why  it  is  impossible  for  m^e  to 
marry  you.  I  —  I  think  I'll  go  inside."  Her 
dignity  was  fast  breaking  do-\^Ti. 

"Was  this  —  wager  —  after  I  met  you?"  came 
from,  him  in  a  curious  tone. 

"Heavens,  no!  Not  that!  Oh,  I  ■\;sish  I  had 
never  seen  you!"  She  was  sobbing  quite  openly 
now. 

"WTiy?"  he  asked. 

"Because  — "  she  rushed  for  the  window,  but  he 
stopped  her. 

"Here  comes  Lady  Muriel.    Oh,  let  m.e  go!" 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  bit  his  mustache. 

"Damn  Lady  Muriel  I"  exclaimed  the  Duke  of 
Oxton. 

And  the  next  minute  Doris  was  crying  all  over 
his  shirt  front. 

E.  B.  Sheldon,  'o8. 


DOWN  BY  THE  STREAM 

"Rest  and  fresh  air,"  concluded  Bruce,  \\dth  a 
tone  of  authority,  "is  what  you  need.  Get  on  a 
trolley  car,  go  'way  out  into  the  country  and  walk. 
That's  what  the  jolly  fellows  in  the  college  stories 

79 


do  at  tliis  time  of  year,  and  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  n't  take  the  tip.'* 

Rollins  was  one  of  those  people  who  clutch  at 
advice  like  a  tramp  at  free  beer.  "Great!"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  so  much  enthusiasm  that  his  eye- 
glasses tumbled  off  his  futile  little  nose.  "It's  aw- 
fully good  of  you  to  bother  about  me,  and  you're 
perfectly  right;  I  have  been  working  much  too 
hard.  As  for  going  out  and  getting  back  to  nature, 
as  it  were,  it's  a  splendid  idea  —  just  the  thing  for 
me.    Why  don't  you  come  along  with  me?" 

"Sorry,  I've  got  to  go  down  and  row.  Besides, 
you  'd  much  better  go  alone  —  you  '11  probably  fmd 
your  affinity  sitting  under  a  tree  sticking  ferns  in 
her  hair  or  something  —  that 's  w^hat  happens  in 
the  stories." 

"I'm  afraid  there  aren't  any  beautiful  damsels 
about,"  said  Rollins,  smoothing  his  pale  hair  and 
attempting  to  look  gallant,  "only  factory  hands  and 
Radcliffe  students." 

"You  never  can  tell  what  these  wild  New  Eng- 
land college  girls  will  do  in  springtime,"  said  Bruce 
as  he  picked  up  his  cap. 

"I  guess  I  can  take  the  risk,"  laughed  Rollins, 
with  the  nearest  approach  to  a  blush  which  his 
sallow  complexion  w^ould  allow.  "Thanks  ever  so 
much  for  the  suggestion.  I  think  I  shall  start  right 
off.    Walking  toward  the  Square?" 

They  went  downstairs  and  across  the  Yard  to- 
gether, and  Rollins  boarded  a  Waverley  car. 

"You're  looking  better  already,"  said  Bruce  as 
they  parted.  "Remember  to  rescue  all  maidens  in 
distress,  and  don't  eat  toadstools  by  mistake. 
Come  tell  me  your  adventures  when  you  get  back." 

The  college  bell  was  clanging  as  the  car  started, 
and  Rollins  pitied  from  his  heart  the  poor  unfortu- 
nates straggling  to  their  two- thirties.  It  was  May; 
everything  was  drenched  with  mellow  sunshine,  yet 
there  was  just  enough  breeze  to  stir  the  frothy  elm- 

80 


tops,  and  the  sky,  vibrating  blue,  was  dotted  with  a 
few  cottony  cloud-puffs.  It  would  be  immoral  to 
stay  indoors  in  such  weather !  The  woods  and  fields 
"fairly  screamed"  at  him  from  the  distance;  it 
was  all  he  could  do  to  wait  for  the  last  of  the  flimsy 
little  paint-and-scroll-saw  houses  to  swirl  past  down 
the  track. 

When  he  finally  reached  a  stretch  of  country  with- 
out a  building  in  sight,  Rollins  signaled  the  con- 
ductor, sprang  lightly  off  before  the  car  had  come  to 
a  stop  —  and  landed  sprawling  in  the  gutter.  The 
passengers  tittered  and  the  conductor  shouted  back 
a  jeering  remark  as  he  twdtched  the  bell  rope.  Or- 
dinarily Rollins  would  have  been  angry  and  ashamed; 
now  he  merely  laughed  and  sat  complacently  in  the 
dust  while  he  groped  for  his  eyeglasses  and  wiped 
them. 

Close  to  the  road  ran  a  brook;  Rollins  got  up 
and,  slapping  the  dirt  off  his  natty  serge  suit  as  he 
went,  followed  it  across  a  stretch  of  tender  grass 
into  the  wood  at  the  end  of  the  pasture.  When  his 
clothes  were  reasonably  clean  he  turned  his  attention 
to  his  shoes,  which  had  gathered  a  considerable 
quantity  of  gravel  in  his  fall.  Sitting  down  on  the 
bank  of  the  brook,  he  took  off  his  shoes  and  shook 
them  out.  As  he  was  about  to  put  them  on  again  a 
long-forgotten  memory  flashed  into  his  mind;  he 
almost  blushed  at  the  idea,  and  looked  furtively 
around.  There  was  no  one  in  sight.  After  a  pro- 
longed struggle  he  gathered  up  his  courage  and,  ^^th 
the  joy  of  a  naughty  child  in  a  forbidden  action, 
deliberately  pulled  off  his  socks,  rolled  up  his  trou- 
sers and  stepped  into  the  brook. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  gasped  and  hopped  gingerly 
from  one  foot  to  the  other;  then,  with  his  socks 
hanging  out  of  his  pockets  and  his  bright  new  yellow 
shoes  dangling  around  his  neck  by  the  strings,  he 
started  up  the  bed  of  the  stream,  stepping  cautiously 
for  fear  of  pointed  stones.    His  feet  tingled  and  sent 


delicious  thrills  up  his  spine;  the  soft,  cool  mud  oozed 
between  his  toes  and  drifted  off  in  murky  clouds; 
startled  minnows  scooted  past  his  legs.  He  was  too 
happy  even  to  sing. 

At  a  turn  in  the  brook  an  apple  tree  in  full  bloom 
leaned  out  over  the  water.  Rollins  buried  his  nose 
in  a  mass  of  pink-tipped  blossoms,  closed  his  eyes, 
and  breathed  in  the  warm  fragrance  till  his  head 
whirled.  A  voice  aroused  him;  around  the  bend  in 
the  stream  floated  a  vision.  It  was  white,  and  femi- 
nine, and  it  was  wading  toward  him  down  the  brook. 
The  rest  was  indistinct,  because  at  the  first  sound  he 
had  jumped,  and  his  everlastingly  annoying  eye- 
glasses had  been  swept  off  by  a  branch  and  had 
"plopped"  into  the  water.  He  stooped  to  look  for 
them,  and  the  vision,  seeing  his  plight,  stooped  like- 
wise. Her  hair  brushed  his  cheek  as  their  heads 
came  together,  and  anxious  as  he  was  to  find  his 
glasses  in  order  to  get  an  adequate  idea  of  her 
beauty,  he  found  the  proximity  so  pleasant  that  he 
hardly  knew  which  he  wanted  most:  to  recover  his 
glasses  or  to  continue  the  search.  The  dilemma  did 
not  last  long,  for  the  vision,  with  a  little  cry,  picked 
the  dripping  glasses  out  of  the  stream,  dried  them  on 
her  skirt,  and  handed  them  to  Rollins.  With  tremb- 
ling fingers  he  adjusted  them. 

The  vision  materialized  into  a  tall,  dark  woman, 
straight-backed,  long-limbed,  deep-chested.  Only 
the  sweeping  lines  of  her  figure  and  the  smallness  of 
her  joints  prevented  her  from  looking  unusually 
large.  Her  dress  was  opened  at  the  neck,  her  sleeves 
were  turned  back  to  the  elbows,  and  her  skirts  were 
gathered  up  to  the  knees.  She  stood  with  her  head 
thrown  back,  smiling  down  at  him  from  under  her 
curling  black  lashes.  There  was  nothing  alarming 
about  her  expression,  and  her  nose  had  a  reassuring 
upward  tilt;  none  the  less  Rollins  was  afraid.  Her 
hair  was  so  black  and  her  lips  were  so  red;  as  for 
her  skin,  it  was  impossibly  white.    It  was  not  her 

82 


beauty  merely  that  was  startling.  She  had  some- 
thing about  her  that  was  disconcerting,  almost  un- 
canny. He  felt  helpless  before  her;  whatever  she 
commanded,  he  must  do.  Not  only  his  presence  of 
mind  but  his  will  melted  completely.  He  stood 
gaping,  with  quaking  knees  and  an  empty  feeling 
inside,  almost  expecting  to  reel  and  see  blackness. 
It  was  like  standing  opposite  a  file  of  soldiers, 
waiting  to  be  shot. 

Of  course  she  did  not  shoot.  She  looked  at  him 
awhile,  evidently  amused  by  his  confusion.  Then, 
as  he  made  no  move  to  pass  or  to  speak,  but  merely 
stared  and  stared,  she  quietly  sat  dowTi  upon  the 
bank  and  gazed  at  her  pink  toes  as  she  dabbled  them 
in  the  water.  Rollins  sat  down  too,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  It  was  not  so  terrifying  to  sit  beside  her  as 
it  was  to  stand  and  look  up  at  her. 

"I  —  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "I'm 
afraid  you'll  think  I'm  awfully  rude.  I  don't 
mean  to  be,  though.  Only  you  see  it's  awfully  un- 
expected, sort  of  —  that  is  —  you  are  —  I  mean  I 
did  n't  expect  to  see  you  —  that  is,  I  did  n't  expect 
to  see  anyone,  and  if  I  did,  I  did  n't  expect  anyone 
like  you."  He  stopped  for  breath,  and  went  on 
more  confidently. 

*'You  see  you're  not  the  sort  of  person  one  would 
expect  to  see  in  Massachusetts,  in  broad  daylight, 
wading  in  a  brook." 

She  laughed  helpfully,  and  asked,  ''Where  should 
you  expect  to  see  me?" 

"Wliy,  you  ought  to  be  something  Oriental  — 
l^-ing  on  a  divan,  being  fanned  by  a  slave,  with  lots 
of  green  gauze  and  squiggly  gold  things,  and  pearls 
—  just  ropes  and  ropes  of  pearls  —  and  a  big  emerald 
on  your  forehead."  For  the  first  time  he  had  courage 
to  look  at  her  unflinchingly. 

"You  seem  to  think  I  am  an  advertisement  for 
Eg>"ptian  cigarettes,"  she  remarked,  sarcastically. 

RoUins's  grooving  self-possession  vanished. 

83 


"No  —  no,  really,"  he  protested.  ''Cleopatra, 
or  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  or  —  or  Astarte;  not 
cigarettes." 

With  a  gesture  that  said,  *'0f  course,  I  under- 
stand; I  was  only  fooling.  Go  on  —  you're  doing 
much  better  now,"  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

Instead  of  going  on  he  picked  up  her  hand  and 
looked  at  it.  The  bare  arm  was  firm  and  rounded 
with  veins  showing  blue  through  the  fine  skin.  There 
WTre  no  rings  and  no  marks  of  any  on  the  long, 
tapering  fingers,  but  the  nails  were  neatly  polished. 
It  was  a  strong,  slender  hand.  Reverently  he  raised 
it  and  touched  the  finger  tips  to  his  lips. 

She  murmured  something  about  a  cavalier. 

''I  never  did  such  a  thing  before,"  he  explained, 
slowly,  without  looking  at  her.  "I've  seen  foreign- 
ers do  it,  and  it  always  seemed  silly.  But  w4th  you 
it  was  different  —  it  seemed  the  right  thing  to  do." 

"  It 's  very  sweet  of  you  to  say  that,"  she  answered. 
"Only  you  must  remember  that  we're  children. 
It's  all  very  well  to  be  courtly  and  make  pretty 
speeches,  but  as  long  as  we're  wading  in  the  brook 
and  acting  Hke  this,  I  'm  just  a  little  girl  and  you  're 
a  little  boy  —  a  Kttle  boy  who  has  run  away  from 
school."  Rollins  squirmed.  "You're  not  really  a 
child,  I  know,"  she  went  on.  "Much  less  am  I. 
I  'm  ever  so  old  —  a  great  deal  older  than  you.  For 
the  present,  though,  we're  children.  So  come  on 
w^ith  me,  and  I'll  show  you  some  lovely  places  up 
stream  a  way  —  fairy  places." 

"Don't  let's  go,"  objected  Rollins.  "I'd  much 
rather  stay  here  and  talk  to  you.  Besides,  I'm 
tired." 

"Tired?"  she  repeated,  and  her  manner  changed. 
"Oh,  that's  too  bad.  You  do  look  pale;  you  must 
have  been  working  too  hard,  and  worrying." 

Rollins  felt  very  uncomfortable.  Apparently  this 
woman  understood  him  at  a  glance,  while  she  re- 

84 


mamed  a  mystery  to  hiin.  It  was  not  that  so  miicli 
as  her  refusal  to  take  him  seriously  and  treat  him 
like  a  groTvTi-up  man;  first  she  wanted  to  pretend 
they  Y.'ere  both  children,  and  now  she  adopted  a 
motherly  attitude.  Neither  course  suited  him  at  all. 
As  he  had  feared,  though,  resistance  was  useless; 
she  must  have  her  way. 

"I  have  been  working  hard,''  he  admitted,  *'and 
getting  very  little  sleep.  That's  why  I  came  out 
here." 

"Very  sensible!""  she  said,  "There's  some  nice 
soft  moss  imder  that  tree  over  there  —  just  the 
place  for  you  to  take  a  good  rest,  with  me  to  take 
care  of  you." 

Meeldy  he  followed  where  she  led.  Arranging  a 
comiortable  place  for  him  to  lie,  she  sat  down,  took 
his  head  in  her  lap  and  made  him  close  his  eyes. 
Gently  she  stroked  his  hair,  humming  to  him 
softly.  He  felt  like  an  idiot,  but  she  did  everything 
in  such  a  fascinating,  natural  way  that  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  comply.  How  much  was  earnest 
and  how  much  was  play  he  could  not  tell;  perhaps 
she  was  making  fun  of  him..  What  matter,  though? 
No  one  need  ever  know.  He  was  not  good  at  con- 
cealing things,  but  Biiice  would  have  no  reason  to 
doubt  anything  he  told  him,  An3^way,  this  was  no 
time  to  bother  about  what  he  should  say  when  he 
got  back.  The  air  was  soothing,  and  her  hands  and 
her  voice  were  soothing.  He  had  not  realized  how 
ven/  tired  he  was.  She  might  think  it  unapprecia- 
tive  of  him,  but  it  was  her  own  suggestion.  And  he 
really  was  a^A'fully  tired.  —  With  thoughts  like  these 
xevohdng  slowly  and  more  slowly  in  his  head,  he 
quietly  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  the  air  was  cooler,  the  shadows 
W'Cre  longer,  and  he  was  alone.  He  sat  up,  and  was 
about  to  call  out.  A  noise  arrested  him.  Crashing 
tov/ard  him  through  the  bushes  came  a  burly  red- 
faced  man„    Remembering  that  his  feet  were  still 

8s 


bare,  he  hastily  curled  them  up  under  him.    The 
fat  man  stopped,  and  grunted  a  greeting. 

''Seen  a  woman?"  he  queried,  panting. 

"A  woman?  N —  no, not  lately,"  faltered RoUins. 
^'I  've  been  asleep,  you  see.  Are  you  looking  for  a 
woman?" 

The  man  grunted  again. 

*'What  sort  of  a  woman?" 

"Big.  Black.  White  skin.  White  dress.  No 
shoes  and  stockings.  'Scaped  early  this  morning, 
while  they  were  dressing." 

''Escaped?"  echoed  Rollins.    "Where  from?" 

The  fat  man  pointed  over  his  shoulder  with  a 
jerk  of  his  thumb.  "'Sylum.  Big  one.  Full  of  'em. 
Lots  of  trouble  lookin'  after  all  of  'em.  Don't 
often  get  loose,  though  — " 

"Is  this  a  crazy  woman  you  are  looking  for?" 
asked  Rollins,  trying  to  contain  his  emotion. 

"S'posed  to  be,"  went  on  the  burly  man,  seating 
himself  on  a  rock  with  a  porpoise-like  exhalation. 
"I  don't  think  so.  Just  foxy  —  foxy  as  they  make 
'em.    She's  a  Klep." 

"A  what?" 

"  Klep  —  Klepto  —  Kleptomaniac.  Steals  things. 
Dangerous  woman.  Got  to  catch  her.  Can't  get 
far  —  no  money,  no  shoes.  Got  to  stop  her  before 
she  can  find  anyone  to  beg,  borrow  or  steal  from. 
Smart  w^oman."  With  rolling  eyes  and  guttural 
groans  he  heaved  himself  up  from  his  seat  and 
floundered  off  into  the  w^ood. 

Meanwhile  a  furtive  examination  had  revealed  to 
Rollins  that  his  watch,  his  pocketbook,  his  scarf  pin, 
and  his  cuff  links  were  missing.  His  new  yellow  shoes 
and  his  socks,  too,  were  gone. 

F.   SCHENCK,  '09. 


86 


A  ROMANCE  IN  RED 

Galton  had  gone  over  the  whole  route  from  the 
Touraine  to  the  Lenox,  calling  at  every  stop,  and 
still  he  could  not  find  his  friends.  They  had  agreed 
to  meet  him  at  nine-thirty,  in  the  Touraine,  down- 
stairs. He  was  not  sure,  now,  that  it  was  the 
Touraine,  but  he  was  positive  that  it  was  downstairs. 
After  waiting  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  began  to 
fear  he  had  made  a  mistake,  so  he  tried  the  Thorn- 
dike,  then  all  the  others,  but  without  success.  They 
must  have  stayed  in  Cambridge,  he  concluded,  or  else 
they  had  gone  to  a  show.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
past  ten  as  he  boarded  a  Subway  car  at  Exeter  Street 
—  he  would  go  back  to  the  Touraine  and  reserve  a 
table  in  hope  that  they  might  turn  up. 

This  sort  of  thing  was  constantly  happening  to 
Galton.  He  never  managed  to  meet  people  where 
and  when  he  expected  to.  It  could  n't  be  that  they 
tried  to  give  him  the  slip:  if  they  did  n't  want  him 
they  need  n't  ask  him  to  go  with  them.  No,  every- 
one was  always  pleasant  to  him  and  seemed  to  want 
to  have  him  about.  It  must  be  his  own  fault.  He 
was  absent-minded  and  forgetful,  in  fact,  stupid. 

These  introspective  thoughts  so  absorbed  Galton 
that  he  forgot  to  get  off  at  Boylston  Street.  At 
Park  Street  he  dashed  out  of  the  car  and  up  the 
steps,  intending  to  hurry  back  to  the  Touraine. 
He  decided,  though,  that  it  was  n't  worth  while, 
and  started  off  aimlessly  in  another  direction. 
Once  more  his  mind  returned  to  his  shortcomings. 
What  a  shiftless,  absurd  sort  of  creature  he  was! 
Absolutely  irresponsible  and  vague.  It  was  lucky 
he  did  not  have  a  great  deal  of  money.  Anyone 
could  impose  on  him.  Although  he  had  not  extrava- 
gant tastes  and  rarely  bought  anything  for  himself, 
his  money  seemed  to  go.  People  knew  he  was  an 
easy  mark  the  minute  they  looked  at  him.  Perhaps 
his  hair  gave  him  away.    Galton's  hair  was  the  color 

87 


of  a  \vcll-cooI:ccl  buckwheat  cake.  His  friends  called 
it  red;  his  family  stoutly  denied  this  allegation. 
He  himself  was  incUned  to  deny  it,  but  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  he  felt  it  was  true.  Of  course  his  hair  was 
red;  he  had  a  red-headed  nature.  There  was  the 
whole  thing  in  a  nutshell. 

That  w^as  a  comforting  thought.  Meditation  on 
his  owTi  character  ordinarily  plunged  Galton  into 
the  depths  of  gloom,  but  this  time  the  color  of  his 
hair  came  hke  a  beam  of  cheerful  ruddy  light  and 
dispelled  his  somber  thoughts.  With  a  brisker  step 
he  advanced  down  the  street.  What  street  was  it, 
by  the  way?  He  had  not  noticed  where  he  was 
going  since  he  left  the  Subway,  and  now  he  had  no 
idea  of  his  whereabouts.  As  he  was  about  to  stop 
a  passer-by  and  ask  for  directions,  he  noticed  a  little 
restaurant,  and  went  in. 

The  restaurant  was  well  lighted  and,  superficially, 
clean.  None  of  the  tables  except  those  in  the  al- 
coves had  cloths,  but  the  few  cloths  were  reasonably 
spotless.  The  swarthy  waiter  who  leaned  against  a 
pillar  in  an  Attic  attitude  carried  a  perfectly  fresh 
napkin  over  his  arm,  and  the  ample  shirtwaist  of  the 
lady  at  the  desk  was  like  a  gently  heaving  snow- 
drift. Galton  was  satisfied.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
of  eleven  —  he  would  stay. 

A  sound  from  one  of  the  alcoves  caused  him  to 
turn  around.  Over  the  table  leaned  a  woman,  her 
head  in  her  hands,  sobbing.  Her  face  was  hidden; 
all  that  was  visible  under  her  black  hat  was  a 
mass  of  hair  the  color  of  new  tan  shoes.  Galton 
confirmed  this  fact  with  a  glance  at  his  own  feet. 
She  was  young  —  not  much  over  twenty,  he  esti- 
mated. Her  dark  gray  dress  was  very  simple,  but 
there  was  no  sign  of  poverty  in  her  appearance. 
She  wore  a  ring  —  he  did  not  recognize  the  stone 
—  which  looked  fairly  expensive  and  her  shoes  gave 
unmistakable  evidence  of  respectability.  Galton 
was  not  a  connoisseur  of  women ;  still,  he  had  learned 


to  judge  by  shoes.     After  all,  that  is  rather  ele- 
mentary. ,     ,      ^    J        ^4.1, 

Galton  looked  at  the  waiter  and  the  lady  at  the 
desk.  The  waiter  was  still  posing  gracefully,  look- 
ing vaguely  at  the  ceiling,  and  the  lady  seemed,  from 
the  steady  rise  and  fall  of  her  expansive  shoulders, 
to  be  sleeping  as  she  sat.  Three  or  four  nondescript 
people  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  were  eating  stolidly. 
Apparently  no  one  cared  what  happened  to  the  poor 
girl  Galton  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  a  moment 
undecided.  Then  a  peculiarly  despairing  sob  broke 
through  his  tunidity,  and  he  found  hunself  sitting 
beside  the  girl  with  an  arm  about  her  shoulders. 

''What's  the  trouble?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  started,  showing  a  pair  of  very  tearful 
eyes  between  her  fingers.  ut  i,  ^    .- 

"WTiat's  the  matter?"   he  repeated.       i  hate  to 

see  you  cry  like  that." 

Her  answer  was  a  renewed  outburst  ot  tears. 
Her  voice  struggled  through  the  sobs.  ''They  said- 
it  was  red  —  and  — " 

"Wliat  wasred?" 

"My  hair,"  and  she  wept  bitterly.    ^      ,  ,    .    .„ 

"  W^o  said  it,  and  what  business  was  it  of  theirs? 
inquired  Galton,  hotly. 

"I  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage.  I  came  down  from 
Vermont  on  purpose  — and  I  tried  the  chorus  to 
begin  with—"  her  words  came  slowly,  interrupted  by 
sounds  of  choking—"  and  they  took  a  lot  of  freaks- 
ugly  old  things,  you  ought  to  have  seen  their  legs— 
and  they  wouldn't  have  me  — because  they  said 
jny  hair— was  red— and  everyone  laughed  at  me— 
She  was  off  again,  weeping  like  Niobe. 

"I  know,"  said  Galton,  soothingly,  they  say 
mine  's  red,  too,  and  people  laugh  at  me  — " 

The  girl  straightened  up  and  looked  at  him.  bhe 
was  young,  and  she  had  great  big  dark  eyes. 

"I'm  really  awfully  sorry—"  said  Galton,  get- 
ting a  httle  embarrassed  under  her  scrutiny. 

89 


*^0h,  I'm  so  jTjlad  you've  come,"  said  the  ^rirl. 
She  leaned  toward  him  till  the  tan-shoe-colored  hair 
mingled  with  the  buckwheat-cake-colored  hair. 
For  several  moments  neither  spoke. 

^'Wouldn't  you  like  something  to  eat?"  asked 
Galton  as  her  sobs  subsided. 

"Yes!"  she  said.  ''I'd  forgotten  all  about  eat- 
ing." It  took  a  tremendous  effort,  but  she  managed 
to  smile. 

"Waiter!"  said  Galton,  disengaging  himself. 
The  statue  sprang  into  life. 

"We'll  have  lobster,"  said  Galton,  "and  tomato 
salad,  and  radishes,  and  claret  —  everything  red 
on  the  bill-of-fare.  Waiter,  bring  oyster  cocktails 
to  start  with,  and  show  me  the  wine  card  —  it 's 
nearly  eleven." 

The  girl  meanwhile  straightened  her  hat  and  tried 
to  regain  her  composure.  "It's  all  on  account  of 
the  folks  at  home,"  she  explained.  "They  didn't 
want  me  to  try,  but  I  told  them  I  was  sure  I  could 
make  good.  So  they  let  me  come,  and  hired  a  room 
for  me,  and  gave  me  some  money.  But  it's  nearly 
all  spent,  and  if  I  can't  even  get  into  the  chorus  I 
don't  know  what  I  can  do.  Really,  you  ought  to 
see  the  painted  frights  they  took  —  voices  like  a 
busted  phonograph  —  could  n't  dance  any  more 
than  a  cow — " 

"You  don't  seem  like  a  country  girl,"  said 
Galton. 

"Oh,  I  lived  in  New  York  till  I  was  twelve — • 
and  Montpelier  's  not  such  a  smxall  town." 

The  waiter  bustled  up  with  the  oyster  cocktails,  and 
smirked  and  scraped  and  flicked  off  imaginary  crumbs 
till  Galton  sent  him  to  get  some  cayenne  pepper. 

The  girl  liked  the  idea  of  a  red  supper  —  she  said 
it  sounded  Hke  Paris  —  but  she  would  not  drink 
anything  and  was  afraid  she  was  n't  accustomed  to 
lobster.  So  they  had  only  radishes  and  the  tomato 
salad  after  the  oysters. 

QO 


"It's  awful  for  me  to  sit  here  wath  a  strange  man 
this  way,"  said  the  girl  as  she  attacked  a  tomato, 
*'but  it  was  so  good  of  you,  and  I  am  hungry  —  and 
I  always  trust  people  with  your  color  hair." 

Now  that  she  had  cheered  up  again  Galton  no 
longer  felt  at  ease.  He  had  never  done  anythmg  of 
the  kind  before;  he  hardly  knew  what  to  talk 
about.  Fortunately,  she  kept  the  conversation 
going.  None  the  less  he  was  reheved  when  the  waiter 
brought  the  check. 

"WTiere  do  you  live?"  asked  Galton,^  as  the 
waiter  showed  them  out,  wrigghng  with  gratitude  for 
his  liberal  tip. 

"Not  very  near  here;  but  let 's  walk,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

Galton  said  he  preferred  walking,  so  they  set  out 
dowTi  an  unfamiliar  street. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'll  do,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
wish  there  were  some  people  like  you  in  the  theatrical 
business;  but  there  are  n't  —  all  black-haired  and 
Jewy-looking." 

"WTiy  don't  you  go  back  to  Montpelier?"   said 
Galton,  seriously.    "You  would  n't  like  the  chorus." 
"Perhaps  not,"  she  sighed.    The  rest  of  the  way 
they  walked  in  silence. 

It  was  a  dingy-looking  doorway  where  they 
stopped,  but  the  people,  she  said,  were  "nice  fat  old 
things." 

Galton  felt  in  his  pockets.  He  had  one  gold- 
piece,  and  his  carfare  —  that  was  all  to  the  first  of 
the  month.  Yet  he  unhesitatingly  fished  it  out  and 
as  they  shook  hands  he  left  it  in  her  palm. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said,  offering  it  back  to  him,  "I 
could  n't  take  money  from  you!" 

"You've  got  to  get  home  to  Montpelier,"  he 
said,  backing  away  from  her. 
"No  —  I  can  write  — " 

"For  the  color,  then,"  said  Galton,  persuasiv.4;.  ; 
"it's  red  gold." 

91 


"ReaHy,  it's  too  good  of  you!"  said  the  girl  cf- 
fusiveiy,  slipping  the  coin  in  her  pocket.  And  once 
more  the  tan-shoe-colored  hair  mingled  with  the 
buckwheat-cake-colored  hair.  She  broke  away  with, 
a  sob,  and  he  turned  sadly  toward  the  car  line. 

F.   SCHENCK,  '09. 


THE  MURDERER 

"  Come  here,  you  blasted  rascal ! " 

Thorpe,  who  was  lolling  deep  in  an  armchair'^s 
leather  lap,  in  front  of  a  pleasant  log  lire,  blew  a 
thick  blue  lather  of  smoke  from  pursed-up  lips. 
Then  he  turned  his  little  fat  bristly  head,  and 
squinted  his  watery  green  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
butler.  The  latter  —  who  was  very  knock-kneed 
and  small,  and  topped  by  an  abnormally  large  red 
head  —  approached,  tray  in  hand,  his  blue  eyes 
blinking,  his  pink  lips  drawn  with  terror. 

"What's  your  name?"   snapped  Thorpe, 

"William  Saucer,  sir." 

"How  long  have  you  worked  here?" 

"Eight  months,  sir,  please  sir." 

"I  don't  please  sir;  and  don't  stand  there  gaping 
at  me  like  a  blue-eyed  baboon,  but  fetch  me  a  pint 
of  chianti.    Do  you  understand?" 

The  little  butler  trembled  and  scurried  off  noise- 
lessly over  the  thick  carpet.  Thorpe,  having  solidly 
snipped  the  ash  from  his  cigar  with  a  heavily  ringed 
finger,  settled  himself  to  reading  the  financial  page 
of  the  evening  paper,  while  the  black  mission  clock 
resonantly  tick-tocked  on  the  mantelpiece. 

In  the  pantry,  Saucer  sniffed  and  rubbed  his 
eyes. 

"The  sev  —  th  seventh  time,"  he  blubbered 
whiningly,  "the  seventh  time  he  has  asked  me  my 
name !  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  How  can  a  —  can  a 
hard-working-man-sta-nd  such  treatment?" 

92 


He  took  Thorpe  the  chianti  and  then  returned, 
softly  closing  the  door  behind  him.  Sniffing  again, 
and  gently  passing  his  coat-sleeve  over  his  eyes,  he 
took  off  his  apron  and  hung  it  up  in  the  closet,  stand- 
ing on  tiptoe  to  do  so.  This  time  he  seemed  partly 
to  recover  his  good  spirits  and  ran  his  eye  over  the 
wine  shelves,  craning  his  white  thin  neck  now  this 
way  and  now  that. 

He  spent  some  minutes  doing  this,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  all  the  while,  and  inwardly  purring 
with  satisfaction.  What  a  splendid,  gHttering  array, 
after  all!  With  childish  glee  he  enumerated  the 
bottles  on  his  fingers,  remarked  where  this  was 
bought,  and  how  old  that  was,  and  wondered  with 
his  large  head  critically  thro-^^Ti  back,  and  his  eyes 
screwed  up,  whether  the  third  vintage  was  as  good 
as  the  fourth.  A  smile  crept  tiptoeingly  onto  his 
lips.  Gracious!  Here  was  enough  wine  and  cham- 
pagne to  intoxicate  an  elephant.  One  elephant? 
Two  elephants!  He  could  easily  imagine  those  two 
elephants  he  had  seen  the  day  before  at  the  circus 

—  drunk,  both  —  and  rolling  dissolutely  about 
under  the  tent  vdth  hysterical  snorts.  One  of  them 
he  clearly  saw  careening  against  a  tent  pole,  lifting 
his  trunk  in  an  ecstatic  squeal  and  merrily  winking 
with  his  left  eye.  At  the  thought  he  began  laughing 
softly,  and  wagged  his  head  back  and  forth. 

"Oh,  my  imagination—"  he  began  —  and  then 
stopped  short,  with  a  jump,  and  staring  eyes.  He 
smiled,  a  little  incredulous  smile;  and,  as  if  it  were 
a  viper,  watched  his  o^tl  hand  crawling  up  towards 

—  a  bottle.  Then,  falling  into  the  wicked  spirit  of 
the  thing,  he  backed  his  hand  up,  heart  and  soul, 
and  swiftly  poured  the  bottle  into  a  glass.  His 
eyes  t-^dnkled,  he  lifted  the  glass  high  in  the  air, 
laughingly  whispered  a  "hellth"  to  Thorpe,  and 
poured  the  sparkling  contents  down  his  throat. 

For  some  seconds,  paralyzed  \\4th  fear,  he  gaped 
with  his  mouth  and  clutched  at  the  empty  glass. 

93 


In  the  next  room  he  could  hear  Thorpe  turning  the 
pages  of  his  newspaper.  Otherwise  there  was  no 
sound,  the  club  was  quite  still.  The  tin  alarm 
clock,  ticking  busily  by  his  shoulder  pointed  to 
eight-fifteen,  and  apparently  had  every  intention  of 
ticking  for  some  time.  Everything  was  as  it  should 
be,  there  wasn't  the  slightest  danger  of  detection; 
suddenly  he  broke  his  theatrical  attitude  and  poured 
the  glass  full  again.  The  second  draught  trickled 
down  his  throat  even  more  pleasantly  than  the  first. 
It  was  followed,  in  turn,  by  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  a 
fifth.  And  a  jovial  warmth  began  blooming  in  his 
stomach  and  throat. 

''Perhaps  —  I'd  better  put  the  glass  down,"  he 
remarked  slowly.  He  did  so,  with  a  motion  at  once 
deliberate  and  dignified.  After  that  he  sat  do^\Tl  in 
a  spider-backed  chair  and  nodded  sleepily,  folding 
his  hands  peacefully  across  his  breast. 

''Very  pleasant  warmth,"  he  murmured,  drowsily. 
His  breathing  became  regular  and  deep,  he  sank 
lower  and  lower  into  the  chair,  and  his  thin  little 
legs  crawled,  like  inlets  of  the  tide,  gradually  out  over 
the  floor. 

Ten  minutes  later  Thorpe  called  to  Saucer  and 
got  no  answer.  With  an  oath  —  because  one  of  his 
feet  was  asleep,  and  felt  crawling  with  ants  —  he 
limped  into  the  pantry,  uncorked  a  bottle  with  a 
succulent  pop,  and  bore  it  away.  He  did  not  wake 
Saucer,  because  he  was  rather  ashamed  of  himself. 
Then  he  settled  himself  again  in  his  chair  and  sipped 
from  a  glass  and  read  the  newspaper  and  blinked  at 
the  fire,  continually,  over  and  over  again.  With  a 
sleepy  smile  he  listened  to  the  mission  clock  ticking 
out  its  iambics;  it  sounded  marvelously  Hke  a  one- 
legged  man  stamping  along  with  a  crutch.  The 
next  minute  he  was  dreaming  about  Treasure  Island 
and  about  one-legged  John  Silver;  or  a  mixture  of 
John  Silver  and  Pew,  blindly  tick-tocking  about  on  a 
frosty  road,  at  dead  of  night. 

94 


Saucer  awoke  a  little  later  with  an  unpleasant, 
sneering  feeling  on  his  lips.  He  was  conscious,  above 
all  things,  of  being  drunk  and  ill-tempered,  and  felt 
a  good  deal  unbalanced.  WQien  he  opened  his  blue 
eyes,  they  fell,  as  if  by  the  design  of  God,  upon  an 
enormous  hunting-knife  which  someone  had  struck 
by  the  blade  into  the  wall.  He  fancied  it  was  still 
quivering,  as  it  hung  there  at  an  angle  of  sixty 
degrees,  apparently  upon  the  point  of  clattering  to 
the  floor.  But  on  the  contrary,  it  did  not  fall.  He 
spent  some  minutes  staring  at  it  stupidly.  He  was 
sure  it  had  not  been  there  when  he  had  fallen  off  to 
sleep.  Someone,  evidently,  had  entered  the  pantry, 
had  discovered  the  butler  in  a  drunken  sleep,  and 
had  used  the  knife  in  opening  a  bottle.  Then,  in 
his  hurry,  he  had  left  the  knife  hanging  here  in  this 
striking  and  odd  position.  Saucer's  mind  worked 
very  slowly  and  circumspectly.  Thus  far  it  had 
successfully  encompassed  the  dilemma  and  had  suf- 
ficiently proven  the  knife  to  be  no  hallucination. 
Now,  the  question  was,  who  had  put  it  there?  He 
shaded  his  eyes  and  scrutinized  it  closely,  hop- 
ing to  recognize  it;  but  he  was  certain  he  had 
seen  it  never  before!  And  then  —  he  thought  of 
Thorpe. 

Hal  Thorpe!  Saucer  stiffened  in  his  chair  and 
gripped  both  arms  of  it  very  firmly.  Thorpe  —  the 
knife;  the  knife  —  Thorpe.  The  two  paired  them- 
selves instantly  in  his  befuddled  brain.  They  came 
forward  together,  dancing  a  barn  dance,  revolved, 
bowed  to  each  other,  and  retreated  again.  Thorpe! 
All  the  hundreds  of  insults  and  indignities  which  he 
had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  this  gentleman  presented 
themselves  to  his  mind  in  human  form,  for  inspec- 
tion. In  company,  they  passed  well  for  a  fancy 
dress  ball;  except  that  they  were  all  sad  of  face  and 
querulous  of  voice. 

This  train  of  pleasant  thought,  which  was  trickling 
very,  very  slowly  through  Saucer's  brain,  was  all  of 

95 


a  sudden  abruptly  shattered  by  a  sonorous  snore 
from  the  next  room.  Saucer  stared  at  the  knife. 
Then  he  shoved  off  from  the  chair,  clutched  the  haft 
of  it,  which  was  at  first  inclined  to  elude  him  and 
slip  water-like  through  his  fingers,  and,  as  stealthily 
as  might  be,  opened  the  great  oaken  door,  breathing 
hard  against  it  as  he  did  so.  At  the  same  instant  the 
mission  clock  boomed  out  nine  o'clock,  and  Saucer 
jumped  nervously.  By  the  fourth  stroke,  however, 
he  had  recovered  control  of  himself,  and  stepped 
tremblingly  into  the  drawing-room,  his  footsteps 
deadened  by  the  heavy  carpet.  Thorpe,  as  he  had 
foreseen,  was  fast  asleep  with  one  great  fat  leg 
flung  awkwardly  over  an  arm  of  the  chair. 

He  hesitated,  darting  suspicious  glances  about 
the  room  and  pricking  his  thumb  with  the  point  of 
the  blade.  Why  should  he  be  afraid?  One  quick 
downward  stroke  and  it  would  be  all  over.  Thorpe's 
heart  and  pulse  would  cease  ticking  forever,  his 
eyes  would  never  again  open,  his  feet  would  never 
again  touch  the  floor,  his  voice  would  never  again 
squeak  orders.  There  would  be  an  empty  niche  in 
the  Hall  of  Life.  And  he  —  Saucer  —  what  would 
happen  to  him?  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  He 
would  take  the  first  train  away,  nobody  would  dis- 
cover Thorpe's  body  till  noon  of  the  next  day;  and 
there  would  be  no  more  Thorpe  to  plague  him  and 
make  miserable  his  life. 

In  four  steps  he  had  reached  the  very  middle  of 
the  room,  beneath  the  great  pearl-colored  globe  of  a 
soft  electric  light.  The  blade  sparkled  in  his  hand, 
he  turned  it  this  way  and  that.  How  very  auda- 
cious it  was  of  him!  Just  think  of  it!  He,  Saucer, 
a  murderer !  He  was  sure  that  Isabel  would  admire 
him  all  the  more  for  it;  and  he,  in  her  eyes,  would 
immediately,  by  that  action,  become  a  hero. 

Three  more  steps  and  he  stood  directly  behind 
Thorpe's  chair,  leaning  over  him  with  a  yellow- 
toothed  grin.     He  lifted  the  hunting-knife  with  a 

96 


little  shiver  of  pleasure.  When  slowly  Thorpe's 
head  revolved,  his  face  turned  upward,  and  he  re- 
marked thickly: 

"You'd  better  not  do  that.    You'd  better  not." 

Saucer  gasped  and  staggered  backward.  At  the 
same  time  Thorpe  rose  with  a  hideous  deliberation 
and  sloTVTiess,  turned  around  in  a  leisurely  manner, 
stepped  nearer,  loomed  large,  then  swelled  enor- 
mously like  a  bubble  —  and  burst  into  a  thousand 
sparks. 

Saucer  leapt  bodily  from  his  chair,  rubbing  his 
eyes.  He  blinked  about  him  stupidly,  in  the  pantry. 
Yes,  there  was  the  bottle  he  had  emptied.  He  felt 
singularly  light-headed  and  feathery,  and  drifted 
like  a  cloud  toward  the  door.  He  trembled  with 
terror  as  he  opened  it  and  peered  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Then  a  chill  sweat  broke  through  the  skin 
on  his  forehead.  The  bottles  were  tumbled  about 
on  the  floor  amid  fragments  of  the  evening  news- 
paper, the  fire  was  whiffling  softly  among  the  coals. 
And  Thorpe,  with  his  feet  on  the  fender,  was  snoring 
steadily  and  deeply  in  the  armchair. 

Saucer  crumpled  to  the  floor  like  ash.  Then, 
huddled  in  a  black  little  pile,  he  began  to  weep. 

C.  P.  Aiken,  'ii. 


VIGNETTE 

A  tea:  The  hostess  suavely  circumspect, 

Three  score  of  ladies,  and  a  score  of  men; 

A  well-bred  hum  of  smiling  platitudes ; 

The  day  "just  lovely,  —  but  so  hot,  my  dear." 

Soft  clicks  of  cups,  and  whir  of  fevered  fans; 

Eau  de  Cologne  and  orchids;  faint,  the  mild 

Remonstrance  of  a  weary  orchestra; 

The  drowsy  nod  of  boredom  —  four  to  six. 

Wm.  C.  Greene,  'ii. 
97 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR 

^Un  sou,  m'sieur?  Ayez  pitie 
Du  pauvre  aveuglel''    Yes,  it  is  he, 
The  little  man  with  snow-white  hair, 
Still  sitting  in  his  broken  chair 
Beside  the  church  of  Sainte  Marie. 

The  ragged  children  climb  his  knee 
Where  once  their  fathers  played  in  glee; 
They  know  him  with  his  plaintive  prayer, 
"  Un  sou,  m'sieur?'' 

The  passers-by  pause  at  his  plea. 

And  coppers  jingle  merrily. 

At  nightfall  home  he  steals,  and  there 

His  eyes  pop  open,  free  from  care. 

—  Tomorrow  it's  "Ayez  pitie 

Un  sou,  m'sieur?" 

Wm.  C.  Greene,  'ii. 


ARCADIAN  SKETCHES 

{Piping  Corydon) 

Ahead,  beyond  the  village,  there  is  a  smooth 
straight  bit  of  road,  bordered  on  both  sides  with 
giant  poplars  whose  leafy  caps  almost  touch  over- 
head. Through  the  trees  bits  of  the  Arcadian  coun- 
tryside are  seen,  neat  green  bits,  with  here  and  there 
little  brown  houses  sheltered  by  oaks  or  more 
poplars,  and  surrounded  by  geometric  patches  of 
garden  land.  Down  this  road  at  even  time  come 
sedate  herds,  marshaled  by  a  chubby  lad  fero- 
ciously brandishing  a  stick,  or  by  some  brown  and 
white  dog  who  marches  along,  head  and  tail  erect, 
with  eye  always  alert  for  some  laggard  from  the 
herd.   Here,  too,  one  meets  Arcadians,  with  smiling 

98 


faces  and  good-humored  greetings,  whose  sun- 
browned  limbs  flash  out  superbly  from  their  white 
graceful  robes.  It  was  down  this  road  that  we 
passed  at  noon,  my  dainty  guide  and  I,  she  neat  and 
alluring  in  the  flowing  garb  of  Arcadia,  I  dark^and 
somber  in  the  garb  of  the  West.  The  sun  was  bright, 
each  bit  of  clustered  foliage  seemed  to  hold  its  sing- 
ing bird,  some  chattering  merrily,  some  more  tender 
and  wistful,  piping  in  sweet,  long-drawn-out  cadences. 
And  now  and  again  my  companion,  in  the  sheer  joy 
of  the  morning,  would  throw  back  her  head  and  sing 
the  tender  songs  of  Arcadia. 

Ahead,  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  light  smoke  was 
streaming  out  of  some  noonday  chinmey,  ascending 
in  vague,  fantastic  clouds  that  seemed  just  formed 
to  complement  the  quaint  regularity  of  the  fields 
and  the  tapering  outline  of  the  trees.  From  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  too,  came  music,  the  sound  of 
pipes,  far  away  still,  and  faint.  I  hurried  ahead, 
smiling  at  the  thought  of  some  modern  day  Pan  or 
vaunting  ]Mar>'sas.  ^ly  companion,  too,  heard, 
and  with  a  smile  of  recognition  hurried  along  at 
my  side. 

Over  the  hill.  .  .  .  Below,  there  was  a  hut, 
brown,  in  the  Arcadian  fashion,  with  a  chimney 
smoking,  yet  more  merrily  and  exhaling  enticing 
odors  of  "herbs  and  other  country  messes."  The 
music  of  the  pipes  was  louder,  and  a  gentle  voice 
w^as  heard,  coming  with  it  from  behind  the  trees. 
jMy  companion  raised  a  hand  in  warning.  Softly 
we  stole  around  behind  a  hedge,  over  a  rock.  .  .  . 

On  a  stump  sat  an  old  man,  with  streaming  white 
hair  failing  carelessly  over  his  bent  shoulders.  At 
his  lips  were  the  pipes,  upon  which  he  blew  lustily, 
with  much  puffing  of  old  cheeks  and  wrinkling  of 
brows.  And  at  his  feet,  on  a  plot  of  the  greenest  of 
turf,  two  pigs  were  dancing.  One  was  brown,  pom- 
pous, heavy  with  years  and  dignity,  who  went  at  a 
slow,  serious  step,  in  a  sort  of  minuet.    The  other, 

99 


white,  coquettish,  with  a  bow  of  blue  about  her 
neck,  tripped  merrily  a  porcine  fandango.  The  old 
man  cast  on  them  eyes  of  love,  followed  every  move- 
ment smiling,  nodding  with  pleasure  at  each  grace- 
ful pirouette.  Or,  now  and  again,  when  a  step  was 
awkward  or  a  turn  missed,  he  would  take  the  pipes 
from  his  mouth  and  address  them  chidingly: 

"I  prithee,  Iphegenie,  more  lightly,"  or  '^ Hector, 
Hector,  thou  wilt  break  thy  old  master's  heart  with 
thy  clumsiness." 

Then  the  piping  again  and  the  lesson  went  on. 

After  a  moment  we  stole  away  unobserved.  And 
as  we  went  on,  toward  the  blue  hills  of  the  West, 
the  gentle  sound  of  the  pipes  came  still  to  our  ears, 
softer  and  softer,  till  finally  it  died  away,  and  only 
the  birds  were  left  to  make  music  for  us. 

P.  R.  Mechem,  '15. 


THE  CASE  OF  CLARA 

(A  Comedy) 

Scene:  Bitherto  comfortable  bachelor  apartments  in 
complete  disarray.  Rugs  rolled  up  in  a  cornier,  furni- 
ture covered  with  gray  shrouds,  ^^ September  Morn'^ 
fiat  on  the  floor,  with  face  cracked  in  several  places. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room,  two  bulging  valises,  and 
lying  on  top  of  them,  a  leather  case,  apparently  con- 
taining a  gun.  At  the  right,  a  telephone,  over  a  mussed- 
up  lounge,  and  by  the  lounge  a  mysterious  case,  labeled 
in  large  letters:   ^^ Live  Stock!    Handle  with  CareV^ 

Jack  is  discovered  pacing  the  floor  and  kicking  at 
the  valises  as  he  goes  by.  Apparently  something  is  on 
his  mind,  for  at  every  turn  he  threatens  to  take  down 
the  telephone  —  then  changes  his  mind  and  stamps 
away.  Finally  he  stops  short  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  thinks  hard  a  moment,  then  clinches  his  fist 
and  rushes  to  the  telephone. 

100 


Jack  {emphatically,  into  the  receiver).  —  Hello, 
hello.    Central  4404,  please.  —  Yes,  4404. 

Short  pause,  during  which  he  pulls  nervously  at  the 
fringe  of  the  lounge. 

Jack.  —  Hello.  Central  4404?  Might  I  speak  to 
Miss  Browneil?    Thank  you.    I'll  wait. 

Caroline  (at  the  other  end  of  the  wire).  —  Hello. 

Jack,  —  Hello.    Is  this  you,  Caroline? 

Caroline.  —  Yes  —    Oh,  it's  you.  Jack. 

Jack.  —  Yes,  .  .  .  Eh  —  how  are  you? 

Caroline,  —  Quite  nicely,  thank  you.  .  .  .  You 
found  that  out  this  afternoon,  you  know. 

Jack.  —  Oh,  to  be  sure.  So  I  did.  I  know,  I 
know.    But,  I  —  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 

Caroline.  —  You  may.    Go  ahead. 

Jack.  —  Thank  you.  You  know  I  'm  leaving  early 
tomorrow,  to  go  hunting. 

Caroline.  —  Yes,  and  I.  .  .  . 

Jack,  —  Of  course,  of  course.  Never  mind  that. 
I  know  you  want  me  to  be  careful  and  keep  my 
feet  dry  and  always  be  careful  it  is  n't  loaded.  .  .  . 

Caroline  (a  bit  defiantly).  —  I  don't  care.  .  .  . 

Jack.  —  Thanks.  But  never  mind  that.  I  want 
to  ask  you  something  before  I  go. 

Caroline.  —  Very  well. 

Jack.  —  Here  goes.  .  .  . 

Enter  Roger,  very  debonair,  arid  whistling  "  In  der 
Nacht "  a  trifle  of  key.  Jack  turns  angrily,  placing 
his  hand  over  the  receiver. 

Jack.  —  Hello.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want?  I  — 
I'm  telephoning, 

Roger  (smiling).  —  So  I  observe.  I  just  dropped 
in  to  say  good-bye  to  you. 

Jack  (hastily).  —  Oh!  Good-bye,  old  fellow,  good- 
bye. Shake  my  hand  quickly.  I  —  I'm  telephon- 
ing. 

Roger.  —  All  right,  I  can  wait. 

Jack  (impatiently).  —  It  —  it  may  take  me  some 
time.     Good-bye. 

lOI 


Roger.  —  No.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
I  can  wait  {looks  at  his  watch)  ten  minutes. 

Jack.  —  Oh !  Put  your  watch  down  there  so  I  can 
keep  track  of  the  time.  Roger  puts  his  watch  down 
on  the  lounge,  by  Jack,  and  starts  walking  around  care- 
lessly, almost  kicking  the  mysterious  case. 

Jack.  —  I  say,  look  out  for  that.  {Into  the  re- 
ceiver.)   Hello. 

Caroline.  —  Hello.    Where  have  you  been? 

Jack.  —  Eh.  .  .  .  Someone  just  came  in. 

Caroline.  —  I  see.    Well.  .  .  . 

Jack  {nervously).  —  I  —  I  hope  your  mother's 
well  today. 

Caroline  {surprised),  —  You  saw  her  just  this 
afternoon. 

Jack.  —  Oh,  so  I  did.  She  —  she  looked  well. 
Eh  —  did  you  have  a  nice  time  at  the  Stantons'  last 
night? 

Caroline  {sarcastically).  —  Perhaps  you  have 
forgotten  that  we  talked  that  all  over  this  afternoon. 

Jack  {glancing  down  at  the  watch).  —  Oh,  so  we 
did.    Has  your  brother  come  home  from  college  yet? 

Caroline.  —  Stupid !  What  on  earth  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Are  you  going  to  ask  me  something  or 
not? 

Jack  {looking  apprehensively  at  Roger ,  then  at  the 
watch).  —  Oh,  good  Lord!    Here  goes. 

Roger  noticeably  pricks  up  his  ears  and  takes  notice. 
Jack  scowls  at  him. 

Jack  {slowly).  —  You  see,  it's  this  way.  {Hesi- 
tates, then  blurts  it  all  out  suddenly.)  It's  this  way. 
Aunt  Grace  has  died.  That  is,  she  died  some  time 
ago. 

Caroline.  —  Aunt  Grace? 

Jack.  —  Yes.  Eh  —  my  dear  Aimt  Grace,  you 
know. 

Caroline.  —  I  did  n't  know  you  had  an  Aunt 
Grace. 

Jack.  —  I  haven't.     That  is  —  that's  just  the 

I02 


point,  you  see.    She 's  dead.    You  must  n't  make  fun 
of  such  serious  matters. 

Caroline.  —  Make  fun !  .  .  . 

Jack.  —  And  she  left  me  something  —  money  — 
you  know.  A  sort  of  leg  —  legacy.  And  you  know, 
my  dear  Aunt  Grace  was  very  fond  of  cats. 

Caroline.  —  Fond  of  cats! 

Jack.  —  Yes,  just  like  you.  That  is,  like  you  are. 
.  .  .  And  she  had  one  particular  favorite  —  oh,  a 
very  particular  favorite.  It  was  a  —  a  —  a  —  you 
know  the  kind  of  cat  that  makes  crosses  .  .  . 
^Maltese,  of  course.  His  name  is  .  .  .  Clara. 
And  .  .  .  well,  it's  all  part  of  the  legacy.  Do  you 
follow  me? 

Jack  looks  anxiously  at  the  watch,  Roger  is  ob- 
viously much  interested. 

Caroline.  —  No  — I  think  you're  quite  crazy. 

Jack.  —  But  you  will.  You  see  she  left  this  cat 
to  me  with  the  money.  I  was  to  keep  the  creature, 
nourish  it,  you  know,  and  brush  its  tail  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  Wait  a  minute. 

Looks  at  the  watch  again. 

Jack  {loud,  aside).  —  Only  one  minute  more.  I 
must  hurry.  {To  Caroline.)  Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes. 
.  .  .  Well,  I've  done  all  that  and  that  .  .  .  and 
I  don't  get  the  money  unless  Clara  is  alive  and 
sopping  up  nourishment  on  my  twenty-first  birth- 
day. That's  next  week.  No,  it's  the  day  after  I 
get  back  from  the  woods.  You  know  we've  been 
packing,  packing,  you  understand,  things  in  moth 
balls,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  . 

Caroline.  —  In  moth  balls ! 

Jack.  —  Yes,  in  moth  balls.  And,  quite  by  mis- 
take, Clara  swallowed  three. 

Caroline.  —  Swallowed  three! 

Jack.  —  Yes.  Is  n't  it  terrible!  I  was  in  despera- 
tion, then  it  occurred  to  me  that  you  were  fond  of 
cats  and  might  know  something.  .  .  .  Please,  what 
can  I  do  for  poor  Clara? 

103 


Caroline  {doubtfully).  —  Perhaps  quinine  might 
be  good  for  camphor  balls. 

Jack  {hastily).  —  Oh,  it's  not  the  camphor  balls 
I  'm  worrying  about,  it 's  the  cat  —  it 's  Clara.  I  tried 
giving  it  brandy  and  soda  through  a  rubber  tube 
and  the  poor  thing  has  been  chasing  three  tails  all 
the  afternoon. 

Caroline  {laughing).  —  Are  you  quite  crazy? 
What  is  the  matter  with  you?  I  don't  believe  a 
word.    Is  your  aunt  really  dead? 

Roger  gets  up,  seizes  his  watch  angrily  and  stalks  out. 

Jack. —  Thank  God!    At  last!    He's  gone! 

Caroline  {angrily).  —  Who's  been  feeding  you 
brandy  and  soda  through  a  rubber  tube?  I'm 
going  to  ring  off.  .  .  . 

Jack.  —  Don't  —  please  —  please,  listen. 

Caroline.  —  Be  quick  if  you  expect  me  to  listen 
much  longer. 

Jack  {triumphantly).  —  I  haven't  any  aunt.  I 
never  did,  and  she  is  n't  dead.  She  never  had  a 
cat,  anyway.  It's  all  because  of  that  damn  fool 
Roger.  He  would  not  go,  and  I  could  n't  —  well,  I 
could  n't  while  he  was  here.  Listen,  I  've  spent  all 
the  afternoon  getting  my  nerve  up.  Do  you  want 
to  get  married? 

Long  pause, 

Caroline.  —  Well.  .  .  . 

Jack.  —  Oh,  please. 

Caroline.  —  Well.  .  .  . 

Jack.  —  Please.  Then  I  can  use  my  gun  to  shoot 
Roger. 

Caroline.  —  I  give  in  —  (laughing)  if  you  promise 
to  use  the  other  barrel  on  Clara.  .  .  .  You'll  be 
right  up? 

Jack.  —  Of  course.    Damn  the  Maine  woods ! 

Jack  rings  of  frantically  and  prances  around  the 
room  in  his  excitement.  Suddenly  the  mysterious  case 
catches  his  eye.  With  a  hurst  of  laughter  he  opens  it 
and  pulls  out  a  decoy  duck. 

104 


Jack  (jubilantly).  —  Good  old  bird!  I  shan't 
need  you  now  —  but  we  '11  just  about  name  you 
Clara  and  keep  you  in  honor  of  the  occasion. 
Though  —  (hesitates)  I  don't  really  know  whether 
you  are  a  duck  or  a  duchess.  Good  old  bird!  How 
we  did  fool  Roger! 

Snatches  a  hat  and  rushes  out.     Quick  curtain. 

P.  R.  Mechem,  '15. 


SONG 

Sun  a  beatin'  on  the  deck, 

Sea's  a  summer  blue, 
Land  a-shimm'rin'  in  the  heat, 

Not  a  thing  to  do ! 

Seaweed  floatin'  in  the  tide. 

Slowly  drifts  along. 
Ripples  slappin'  on  the  side 

Croon  a  little  song. 

Solemn  gull  a-flappin'  by, 

WTiite  against  the  blue  — 
Just  a-sailin'  dovm.  the  bay, 

Nothin'  else  to  do! 

A.  Gregg,  'ii, 


MARY  — NOT  MARIE 

Though  she  was  a  little  French  girl,  her  name 
was  neither  Marie  nor  Jeanne  —  it  was  just  plain 
Mary.  She  was  christened  after  Bonmamma,  who 
came  from  America  —  away  across  the  blue  part  of 
the  map,  the  home  of  Indians  and  Harvard.  Mary 
knew  about  the  Indians  from  an  English  book  her 
older  sister  owTied,  with  a  man  on  it  named  Hawk- 
Eye,  who  dressed  up  like  a  bear;    and  she  knew 

10; 


about  Hansard  because  Uncle  Paul  had  been  there, 
and  had  a  beautiful  red  banner  with  the  name  in 
large  white  letters.  There  were  other  un-Frenchy 
things  about  Mary  besides  her  name  and  her  grand- 
mother; for  instance,  she  hardly  spoke  any  French, 
though  she  was  nearly  eight.  She  and  all  her  little 
cousins  gabbled  delicious  English  with  a  French- 
Irish  accent  —  the  compound  result  of  inheritance 
and  Dublin  governesses. 

In  winter  Mary  lived  in  a  horrid  shut-in  house  in 
the  great  city,  with  only  the  gravel  paths  of  the  park 
for  a  playground,  where  troops  of  horrid  boys  in 
black  aprons,  that  one  might  not  speak  to,  whipped 
tops,  and  flatfootedly  ran  games  of  tag.  Mary 
much  preferred  the  cozy  nursery  with  its  coal  grate 
and  shelves  of  delightful  books ;  the  princesses  with 
their  cherry  and  milk  complexions,  and  the  princes 
with  spun-gold  hair,  and  the  wicked  fairies  who  could 
hold  apples  between  nose  and  chin  made  Mary  forget 
the  cold  weather  outside.  On  the  whole,  she  almost 
preferred  the  fairy  world  to  the  real  world ;  govern- 
esses and  rude  little  boys  were  only  wicked  fairies  and 
goblins  in  disguise  and  if  one  could  only  transfer  to 
fairyland  it  would  not  be  a  second  before  a  prince 
or  a  fairy  godmother  (like  Bonmamma)  would 
come  along  and  turn  them  into  rats  and  mice.  You 
see,  after  all,  Mary  was  quarter  part  American, 
and  did  not  always  mind  her  governess  the  way 
nice  little  French  girls  do. 

But  summer  rather  made  up  for  the  rest  of  the 
year.  It  was  then  that  real  events  happened  to 
one  —  out  at  Bonmamma's  big  chateau  —  when  fine 
officers,  with  lots  of  gold  lace,  almost  as  beautiful 
as  fairy  princes,  sometimes  took  one  to  ride  in 
front  of  them,  and  when  there  were  almost  daily 
automobile  rides,  and  one  came  to  luncheon,  with 
all  the  aunts  and  uncles,  even  if  there  was  company. 
Then  there  were  tricycle  races  with  the  cousins, 
or  if  it  rained  one  could  always  read  Bonmamma's 

io6 


wonderful  picture-books,  which  were  even  better 
than  those  in  the  nursery  at  home. 

This  particular  summer  Mary  had  been  out  at 
the  chateau  for  a  long  delightful  time;  the  warm 
weather  had  almost  made  her  forget  the  smoky 
city.  But  fewer  exciting  things  had  happened  to 
her  than  in  other  summers,  so  she  was  particularly 
thrilled  when  her  nurse  told  her  that  a  new  auto- 
mobile had  arrived,  mth  two  American  men  in  it. 
Mary  scented  adventure  at  once,  and  ran  out  to 
the  garage  as  soon  as  she  finished  breakfast  the  next 
morning.  She  loved  automobiles,  vaguely  appre- 
ciating the  real  romance  in  them  that  most  people, 
particularly  gro\\Ti-ups,  never  think  of;  then,  be- 
sides, they  made  noises  and  breathed  smoke  a  little 
like  dragons  and  were  delightfully  greasy.  This  was 
the  funniest  looking  auto  Mary  had  ever  seen. 

"Oh,  la  la!"  she  exclaimed,  admiringly,  and 
opened  her  gray  eyes  wide  and  pursed  up  her  lips. 
A  man  in  blue  overalls  looked  out  at  her  from  be- 
hind the  automobile;  Mary  knew  it  must  be  one  of 
the  queer  American  men,  who  came  without  any 
chauffeur. 

"Hullo!"  said  the  man. 

"Oh!  it's  such  a  nice  auto!"   said  Mary. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  man,  quite  pleased: 
"well,  I  do,  too." 

"Can  I  watch  you  fix  it?    I  like  nice  autos." 

"Sure,"  answered  the  man.  "Want  to  fill  some 
grease  cups?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary-,  delighted.  She  did  not  know 
what  grease  cups  were,  but  the  grease  part  sounded 
alluring.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  busily  screwing 
and  unscre^dng  round,  silver  things,  and  smearing 
nice,  thick,  yellow  grease  into  them  as  the  American 
man  showed  her.  Then  she  dropped  the  silver  things, 
and  they  fell  with  a  rattle  into  what  the  American 
man  called  the  "pan,"  and  he  laughed  and  crawled 
underneath  to  pick  them  out,  and  got  up  with  his 

107 


face  all  black  (like  Grimes,  the  chimney-sweep,  in 
the  book  called  ''Water-Babies"),  which  made 
Mary  laugh.  Wlien  they  were  all  through  greasing 
the  auto,  the  American  Man  told  Mary  to  press 
some  buttons,  and  suddenly  a  lot  of  electric  lights 
went  on,  and  a  horn  blew.  Mary  wriggled  with 
delight  and  said,  "Oh,  la  la!  It's  an  electric  auto  1" 
and  snapped  the  buttons  in  and  out. 

Mary  felt  quite  friendly  with  the  American  Man 
after  this,  and  when  they  were  walking  toward  the 
house  she  asked  him  something  that  she  had  been 
thinking  about  ever  since  the  night  before. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  buffalo  or  a  bear  in 
America?  " 

"Lots  of  'em,"  said  the  American  Man,  "great 
big  grizzly  bears  as  big  as  horses." 

"Oyes"  said  Mary;  when  she  said  this,  it  was 
not  "Oh  —  yes";  she  ran  the  two  words  together 
and  spoke  them  with  a  little  quaver  —  half  ex- 
clamatory and  half  questioning,  accenting  the  "O." 
(You  see,  I  did  not  put  any  punctuation  point  after 
"Oyes,"  not  even  a  comma,  because  I  should  have 
to  invent  a  new  kind  to  make  it  right.  And  no  one 
but  Mr.  Roosevelt,  or  Mr.  Kipling,  or  Professor 
Copeland  would  dare  do  that.) 

"/  know,"  said  the  American  Man,  "let's  just 
you  and  I  go  out  this  afternoon,  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  the  bears  and  buffaloes  in  America,  and 
you  can  help  me  run  the  automobile,  and  perhaps 
we'll  see  a  bear." 

"Go  out  in  the  big  electric  auto?"  cried  Mary. 
"That  will  be  so  nice!" 

"Only  we  won^t  tell  anyone  about  it,"  said  the 
American  Man,  "because  they  would  want  to  come, 
and  that  might  scare  all  the  bears  away." 

At  luncheon  the  American  Man  smiled  at  Mary, 
and  Mary  felt  all  expectant  and  thrilly  down  the 
back,  and  wondered  if  she  could  get  to  the  garage 
without  nurse's  seeing  her.    She  did  not  know  that 

1 08 


the  American  Man  had  already  consulted  with  Aunt 
Elise,  and  consequently  she  felt  triumphantly  wicked 
when  she  ran  down  the  back  stairs  and  out  to  the 
garage,  while  the  stupid  gro\sTi-ups  were  drinking 
coffee.  You  see,  the  American  quarter  of  her  was  the 
most  important,  after  all. 

The  American  Man  was  not  there  yet,  so  ]Mary 
put  on  all  the  electric  Hghts  and  sat  holding  the 
big  wheel  and  pretended  she  was  racing  through  the 
air  with  the  Arabian  Nights'  man  on  the  magic 
carpet.  She  grew  so  excited  at  almost  skidding  into 
a  tree-top  that  she  never  saw  her  friend  till  he  ap- 
peared beside  her  and  said: 

"Hi,  there,  miss,  you're  pretty  quick.  Now 
let's  hurry  up  and  start  out  to  seek  for  Eva." 

Mary  of  course  did  not  know  w^ho  Eva  was  (any 
m.ore  than  I  do)  but  she  was  all  ready  to  go,  and 
laughed  at  him  out  of  her  gray  eyes,  round  which  the 
skin  dimpled  up  into  tiny  wrinkles,  just  as  though 
she  did  know.  The  American  Man  pressed  a  button 
and  stamped  on  a  pedal;  there  was  a  pumping  noise 
like  a  giant,  with  a  cold  in  his  head,  breathing,  then 
a  low  whir,  and  a  minute  later  they  were  out  in  the 
sunlight  coasting  do^^Tl  the  avenue  from  Montmery 
—  ^lary  in  the  American  ]Man's  lap,  steering  madly. 
WTien  she  grew  tired  she  sat  on  the  seat  beside  him, 
and  he  told  her  wonderful  stories  as  they  slid 
through  cream  and  red  villages,  deserted  except  for 
a  few  chickens,  and  over  long,  poplar-bordered  roads 
that  stretched  away  in  a  straight  line  till  they  ran 
up  a  hill  out  of  sight.  The  stories  were  all  about 
bears  and  buffaloes  and  Indians,  except  that  some  of 
them  were  funny  rhymed  stories,  such  as  ^lary  had 
never  heard  before,  all  about  an  Owl  and  a  Pussy 
Cat  and  some  funny  people  called  Jumblies  who  went 
to  sea  in  a  sieve,  and  a  poor  man  nam^ed  Pobble, 
who  had  his  toes  stolen.  But  the  only  animals  they 
passed  were  big  faun-colored  Limousine  cattle  with 
long  curling  horns  and  herds  of  silly  black-nosed 

109 


sheep,  watched  by  old  women  knitting,  and  sleepy 
dogs ;  they  did  not  meet  a  single  bear,  although  Mary 
looked  carefully.  At  last  they  reached  the  top  of  a 
high  hill  and  the  American  Man  stopped  the  auto. 

''We  have  n't  met  a  single  bear  yet,"  said  Mary. 
She  had  often  been  out  automobiling  and  had  never 
seen  anything  more  extraordinary  than  today,  but 
somehow  it  had  all  been  different  this  time,  and  the 
American  Man  had  said  they  might  see  a  bear. 

''That's  so;  I  'd  forgotten  all  about  them,"  said 
the  American  Man;  "but  perhaps  they're  all 
mopsikon-flopsikon  bears  around  here,  and  you 
never  can  depend  on  them;  you  know,  don't  you, 
about 

"The  Old  Person  of  Ware, 

Who  went  out  to  ride  on  a  bear, 

When  they  asked,  '  Does  it  trot? ' 

He  rephed,  *  Certainly  not. 

It 's  a  Mopsikon-Flopsikon  Bear.' 

Yes,  I'm  sure  all  the  French  bears  are  mopsikon- 
flopsikon  ones,  and  it's  no  use  to  look  for  them." 

Mary  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  this  explana- 
tion and  did  not  understand  a  good  many  of  the 
words.  The  American  Man  was  pulling  something 
out  from  the  back  seat. 

"Never  mind,  Mary,"  he  cried,  "I've  got  things 
a  lot  nicer  than  bears  in  here,"  and  he  pointed  to  a 
wicker  basket. 

Mary's  appetite  was  in  the  American  quarter  of 
her,  and  the  steaming  chocolate  and  egg  sandwiches 
(just  like  the  ones  the  grown-ups  had  for  their  tea 
when  there  were  guests)  made  her  forget  all  about  the 
delinquent  bears.  (Of  course,  Mary  did  not  think 
"delinquent,"  because  she  did  not  know  that  word; 
I  just  put  it  in  because  I  was  sure  all  American  boys 
and  girls  would  know.) 

They  sat  underneath  a  big  tree  while  they  ate  the 
contents  of  the  basket;  below  them  was  a  stretch 
of  miles  and  miles  of  grain  fields,  with  roads  cutting 

no 


across  them  from  two  little  villages,  lying  tightly 
drawn  in,  like  two  red-backed  spiders.  Mary  felt 
all  loose  in  the  joints  and  contented,  and  soon  forgot 
the  American  Man  as  she  nibbled  thoughtfully  on 
an  egg  sandwich  (to  make  it  last  longer)  and  v/atched 
the  windows  of  IVIontmery,  away  off  on  another  hill, 
grow  red  in  the  afternoon  sunHght.  She  wished  the 
windows  of  the  chateau  would  always  stay  that 
color.    Then  she  heard  the  American  Man  singing: 

"  It 's  thirty  years !  we  must  go  home !  it's  thirty  years,  or  more, 
And  everyone  '11  say  how  tall  we've  grown, 
For  we've  been  to  the  lakes  of  the  Torrible  Zone, 
And  the  Hills  of  the  Chankley  Bore." 

which  was  part  of  the  poem  about  the  Jumblies, 
only  twisted  round  a  httle,  and  Mary  knew  it  was 
time  to  go. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  reached  the  avenue 
leading  up  to  Montmery,  and  Mary  snapped  on  all 
the  electric  lights.  Just  as  they  were  turning  into 
the  gateway  something  ran  out  from  the  roadside 
and  stood  up  in  front  of  the  auto.  The  American 
Man  gave  a  kind  of  jerk  all  over,  and  the  auto 
stopped  up  just  a  few  feet  away  from  a  big  brown 
animal. 

''Oh,  la  la,"  cried  Mary,  clapping  her  hands; 
''it's  a  bear." 

"Yes,"  said  the  American  Man,  repeating  her, 
*'it's  a  bear,  it's  a  bear,  it's  a  bear;  and,  by  Gosh, 
it  isn't  a  mopsikon-flopsikon  bear  either;  see  it  trot!" 

The  bear  had  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  trail- 
ing a  long  piece  of  chain. 

"0-0-00,"  said  Mary,  sitting  quite  still.  "He 
"was  a  nice  bear;  I'm  sorry  he  ran  away.  He  was 
just  like  the  man  called  Hawk-Eye  in  the  book." 

The  American  Man  slowly  started  the  auto. 
"Let's  not  tell  anyone  about  the  bear;  they  might 
not  beUeve  it,  and  it's  more  fun  for  just  you  and 
me  to  know  about  it." 

Ill 


''Oyes"  said  Mary. 

So  Mary  did  not  tell  her  nurse  or  any  of  her 
cousins  about  her  big  adventure,  and  every  time  the 
American  Man  smiled  at  her,  the  next  day  at  lunch- 
eon, she  knew  just  what  he  w^as  thinking  about,  and 
she  smiled  back  at  him  so  that  all  the  little  wrinkles 
came  round  her  eyes. 

The  American  Man  went  away  before  Mary,  and 

he  had  a  chance  to  go  on  another  bear  hunt,  but 

the  next  Christmas,  when  Mary  was  cooped  up 

in  the  house  with  a  cold  that  stopped  up  both  noses, 

a  big  package  arrived  from  America  addressed  to 

Mile.  Mary  de  Luze.    Inside  Mary  found  a  woolly 

brown  bear,  a  meter  high,  with  a  piece  of  paper 

pinned  on  his  back.    The  Grown-ups  laughed  when 

they  read  it  and  said  they  did  not  understand  it; 

Mary  did  not  understand  it  very  well  herself,  but 

she  knew^  it  came  from  the  American  Man,  for  it 

said: 

"I'm  a  Mopsikon-Flopsikon  Bear, 
A  species  exceedingly  rare, 
Though  I  'm  gentle  and  kind, 
You'll  please  bear  in  mind, 
That  I  'm  simply  unable  to  trot, 
I  simply  csinnot,  I  frankly  canwoi, 
I  utterly  can't  do  a  trot." 

LiTHGOw  Osborne,  '15. 


ADVICE  TO  POETS 

Although  it's  but  a  simple  thing, 
This  song  I  'm  going  for  to  sing. 

Yet  mind  you  there's  a  Moral! 
Descriptive  of  a  Reader's  woes, 
And  feelingly  addressed  to  those 

Who  wear  the  local  Laurel. 

For,  you'll  observe,  there's  scarce  a  Bard 
Within  a  mile  of  Harvard  Yard 
Can  truthfully  deny 
112 


That  all  the  themes  on  which  he's  -vvTit 
Are  just  precisely  three,  to  wit: 
The  Sea,  the  Stars,  the  Sky. 

Now  I  '11  admit  that  Skies,  you  know, 
Are  pretty  things,  as  such  things  go, 

And  worth  our  admiration; 
While  Stars  lend  quite  a  pretty  touch 
To  what,  ^^thout  them.,  has  n't  much 

Nocturnal  animation. 

And  lastly,  as  regards  the  Sea, 
Now,  there's  a  thing  appeals  to  me! 

I  love  it  madly,  wildly; 
But  when  you  never  find  a  page 
Sans  "sun-kissed  surge"  or  ''rock-ribbed  rage" 

It's  dull!  —  to  put  it  mildly. 

Yes,  all  these  three  have  been  thy  curse, 
O  Cambridge  School  of  English  Verse, 

And  all  you  've  had  the  scope  for. 
If  only  you  would  write  of  Rats, 
Or  Sealing  Wax,  or  Jam,  or  Cats, 
Or  anything  that's  nev/  —  but  that's 

Too  much,  alas,  to  hope  for! 

H.  Pow^L,  '09. 

A  FRESHMAN  BEER-NIGHT 

Smiley,  '09,  nerv^ously  looked  at  his  watch:  it 
was  quarter  of  eight.  He  was  invited  to  a  Freshman 
beer-night  at  eight.  Surely  it  was  time  to  be  start- 
mg.  For  the  last  time  he  brushed  his  black  suit  and 
straightened  his  flowered  white  tie. 

He  had  written  to  his  famJly  in  a  nonchalant 
way  about  this  beer-night,  but  as  he  stepped  out 
into  the  street,  his  throat  was  pulsing  with  excite- 
ment. 

113 


His  invitation  had  said  Plympton  Street.  When 
he  turned  the  corner  from  Mount  Auburn  Street,  he 
stopped  in  horror  —  he  had  forgotten  the  number. 
If  he  went  back  to  his  room  it  would  make  him 
late;  even  as  he  pondered,  far  down  the  street  came 
a  wailing  song;  as  this  coincided  with  his  idea  of  a 
beer-night,  there  must  be  the  place. 

With  his  heart  in  his  mouth  he  mounted  the  steps 
and  rang  the  bell.  The  house  was  old  and  rickety, 
and  on  the  door  was  draped  some  black  crepe  — 
"to  intimidate  green  Freshmen,"  he  thought. 

A  large  red-eyed  Irishwoman  opened  the  door. 

"Upstairs  front,  sor." 

Smiley  stumbled  up  the  dirty  stairway.  A  cracked 
oil  lamp  gave  a  dingy  light.  He  knocked  timidly 
upon  the  brown  door  that  opened  off  the  landing. 

"  Come  in,  whoever  yez  are." 

Fifteen  or  twenty  flush-faced  Irishmen  were  sit- 
ting about  the  cheaply  furnished  room.  On  the 
pine  center  table  were  ten  empty  whisky  bottles. 
His  invitation  had  said  "to  meet  some  of  your  class- 
mates and  a  few  upperclassmen."  Perhaps  these 
were  the  upperclassmen. 

"  Er  —  my  name  is  Smiley." 

A  man  with  rather  dirty  shirt  sleeves  handed  him 
a  cracked  tumbler  full  of  rank  whisky. 

"'Tis  welcome  yez  are;  sit  down." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence;  then  a  man  in  the 
corner  arose  and  remarked: 

"He  was  always  a  good  lad.  Let's  give  him 
another  chant." 

A  long  yowling  resulted.  Smiley  supposed  it  to 
be  a  new  football  song,  and  made  a  mental  note  of 
learning  it. 

Next  to  him  sat  a  rather  young  man,  with  a  large 
nose  and  greasy  black  hair.  Perhaps  this  was  a 
classmate.  Resolving  to  make  a  sporty  impression, 
he  asked,  "Is  the  beer  in  the  next  room?" 

"It  is  that.    He  passed  away  in  there." 

114 


Smiley  nodded  knowingly.  It  gave  him  a  de- 
licious thrill  to  be  at  a  party  where  someone  had 
really  *' passed  away."  For  himself,  however,  he 
resolved  never  to  drink  too  much. 

The  man  with  the  dirty  shirt  sleeves  then  spoke: 

*'I  would  loike  to  call  upon  Mr.  Smiley  for  a  few 
choice  woids  as  might  be  appropriate  fer  th'  occa- 
sion." 

Smiley  got  on  his  feet,  trembling.  He  felt  that 
the  honor  of  the  Freshman  class  depended  upon  his 
making  a  good  sho'^ing.  In  his  despair  he  remem- 
bered a  poem.  It  had  something  to  do  with  a  man's 
passing  away.  Perhaps  it  would  do.  He  cleared 
his  throat,  clenched  his  fists,  and  began : 

"Listen,  my  friends,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  an  old  time  race  for  a  glass  of  beer, 
On  the  Ides  of  April,  in  sixty-five  — 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

"Then  Rome  was  a  most  disorderiy  place, 
But  one  thing  lessened  the  town's  disgrace; 
At  eleven  they  shut  the  town  up  fast, 
Not  a  drink,  not  a  song,  v/hen  that  hour  was  past. 

"Just  at  ten-forty-five  on  this  famous  date 
Bad  Nero  sat  in  the  Senate-House  gate, 
And  gazed  on  the  Hghts  of  the  town  below, 
Where  the  Senate's  mandate  forbade  him  go. 
They  decreed  his  crime  a  burning  shame 
And  put  him  on  Prob  —  or  the  Roman  name. 

"He  said  to  his  friend,  while  the  latter  did  shrink, 
'I'll  ride  down  to  town  for  a  good  old  drink. 
In  case  I  'm  discovered,  just  hang  out  a  light 
Up  here,  I  can  see  your  signal  bright,  — 
One  if  sober,  and  two  if  tight.' 

"But  e'en  as  he  spoke,  they  heard  the  bell 

Ring  from  its  neck  a  solemn  knell 
Telling  it  was  a  quarter  of  ten 
And  Nero  fiddling  in  his  den. 

"5 


"But  he  called  for  his  steed  and  mounted  to  ride; 
Down  the  Via  he  clattered  in  racing  stride. 
The  king  of  the  nation  was  riding  that  night, 
The  ears  of  his  horse  kept  him  on  in  his  flight. 

"It  was  one  minute  of,  by  the  Forum  clock, 
When  he  galloped  up  to  the  gilded  cock 
Where  the  sports  of  these  historic  times 
Drank  in  booze  and  culture  and  rhymes. 

"'Ten  drinks,'  he  gasped,  of  a  Roman  name  — 
And  the  rest  of  his  night  is  lost  to  fame. 
I  must  tell,  to  bring  the  verse  to  an  end, 
How  he  thought  of  his  words  to  his  faithful  friend  — 

"'One  if  sober,  and  two  if  tight! ' 

As  flash  after  flash  crossed  his  aching  sight, 
For  Rome  was  in  flames  on  that  fatal  night." 

Smiley  sat  down  amid  a  stupefied  silence.  A  fat 
individual  mounted  the  table  and  said:  "Frien's, 
the  funeral  is  Saturday.  Mr.  Smoiley,  yez  irreverent 
divil,  yez  ain't  invited." 

^'What  a  funny  upperclassman,"  thought  Smiley. 

The  air  began  to  get  oppressive.  With  a  sigh, 
Smiley  remembered  that  it  was  not  polite  to  stay  too 
long.  He  got  up  and  shook  hands  all  around.  To 
each  man  he  said,  ^^Do  look  me  up,  712  Perkins." 

As  he  reached  the  street,  from  across  the  way  came 
a  crash  of  broken  glass,  and  "Here's  to  Johnny  Har- 
vard, fill  him  up  a  full  glass"  reverberated  in  the 
air. 

With  a  little  tinge  of  conscious  pride,  he  thought 
of  the  decorum  of  his  hosts. 

W.  Goodwin,  '07. 


SPRING 

The  birds  have  begun  to  sing, 
The  bees  have  begun  to  hum, 

The  little  sidewalk  orchestra 
Plays  tum,  tum,  tum. 

116 


The  trees  are  in  the  bud, 

Spring  at  last  has  come! 
The  little  sidewalk  orchestra 

Plays  turn,  turn,  turn. 

The  tramps  are  on  the  move  — 
The  tramps  are  stricken  dumb 

To  hear  the  sidewalk  orchestra 
Play  bum,  bum,  bum. 

James  L.  Pennypacker,  '8o. 


THE  BEAUTY  IN  THE  SECOND   ROW 

It  is  difficult  to  classify  accurately  all  the  trouble 
of  college  theatricals,  but  the  main  impediments, 
outside  of  the  stars,  may  be  grouped  somew^hat  as 
follows-  First,  the  literary  and  musical,  compris- 
ing the  author  who  objects  to  the  cutting  of  his 
favorite  lines  and  total  wreck  of  his  plot,  the  poet 
who  thinks  the  composer  should  fit  the  m.usic  to  his 
"words,  and  the  composer  who  insists  that  Gilbert 
and  Sullivan  always  worked  the  other  w^ay.  Second, 
the  professional,  including  the  costumer,  who  de- 
livers strange  things,  the  imbecile  who  comes  with 
them  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  act,  the  drowsy 
sceneshifter  and  the  calcium-light  man,  who  gets 
-very  drunk.  This  second  class,  however,  used  to  be 
tempered  vdih  Charley  Garey,  Charley  o'  the  Wigs, 
w^ho,  having  ^'made  up"  the  performers  for  thirty 
odd  years,  was  the  mainstay  and  comfort  of  every 
first  night,  always  cheerful  and  hopeful.  I  trust  he 
still  continues  his  ministrations. 

The  third  class  is  the  fool  chorus.  I  do  not  mean 
all  the  chorus;  they  are  all  more  or  less  bad,  of  course, 
but  there  is  always  one  group  that  is  worse  than  the 
others,  and  therrfore  par  excellence  the  fool  chorus. 
It  is  generally  the  girls'  chorus,  and  was  undoubt- 
edly the  girls'  chorus  in  the  matter  here  to  be  re- 

117 


corded.  This  particular  collection  were  Greek 
maidens  in  the  first  act  and  Trojan  in  the  others, 
and  a  riotous,  unruly,  conceited  lot  tliroughout. 
They  made  trouble  from  the  beginning,  and  would 
have  broken  up  the  play  had  not  the  stage  manager 
been  a  man  of  exceptional  determination.  The 
stage  manager  was  a  Norseman,  or  of  Norse  parent- 
age, and  was  therefore  called  the  Swede;  because  it 
always  pleases  the  Norwegian  so  much  to  be  called 
a  Swede.  After  the  first  week  of  rehearsals,  he  was 
called  the  Angry  Swede.  The  girls'  chorus  paid  at- 
tention to  everything  except  their  own  ''job."  They 
criticized  everytliing  and  everybody,  and  reduced 
Ernest  Gray,  the  librettist,  almost  to  tears.  "Who 
wrote  those  words,  anyway?'^  was  the  comment 
whenever  a  new  song  was  given  them  to  learn.  Then 
they  would  advise  Gray  not  to  answer,  as  an  answer 
might  tend  to  incriminate  and  degrade  him. 

"Just  listen  to  these  observations  —  'We  are 
merry  little  maidens  and  blithely  dance  and  sing.' 
Is  n't  that  original?" 

"And  how  is  a  merry  little  maiden  like  Jack  Rat- 
tleton  going  to  blithely  dance  -with  legs  five  feet 
long?" 

"And  feet  that  don't  track." 

"Never  mind,  Gray,"  said  Stoughton  on  one  oc- 
casion, "it  makes  no  difference  what  the  words  are. 
No  one  in  the  audience  can  distinguish  them." 
Gray  had  spent  hours  over  the  words  of  that  par- 
ticular song. 

"They  could  if  you  braying  asses  woidd  sing  them 
properly,"  retorted  Gray. 

"No  they  can't,"  corroborated  another.  "I'm 
going  to  sing  my  notes  in  Phil.  2.  They  go  beau- 
tifully to  that  air  'Observe  there  is  no  panacea, 
but  the  problem  is  not  without  hope.'  It's  a  very 
good  way  to  learn  them." 

"Last  year  Jack  Rat  chanted  some  sound  doc- 
trine about  Yale,"  said  Randolph.    "A  girl  in  the 

118 


front  row  heard  him,  and  he  took  her  in  to  dinner 
the  next  evening.    She  had  a  brother  at  Yale,  too." 

"She  did  n't  hear  anything  of  the  kind,"  drawled 
Rattleton.    "You  told  her  to  say  she  heard  me." 

"She  couldn't  have  helped  hearing  you.  You 
always  finished  alone,  a  lap  behind  the  bunch." 

"Stop  your  noise  there  and  go  over  that  opening 
chorus  again,"  the  Angry  Swede  would  break  in. 

At  rehearsals  they  were  bad  enough,  but  during 
the  performances  they  became  insufferable.  Always 
late,  always  obstreperous,  always  bungling  some 
part  of  the  play.  Once,  at  the  opening  of  an  act, 
they  were  in  a  line  across  the  front  of  the  stage  and 
stood  too  close  to  the  curtain.  The  roller,  in  rising, 
caught  their  dresses.  Burleigh  was  operating  the 
curtain,  and  had  his  back  to  the  stage;  at  least 
so  he  claimed  afterwards.  He  was  throwTi  to  the 
floor,  in  the  nick  of  time,  by  the  Angry  Swede  and 
two  other  men,  while  the  audience  shouted  for  an 
encore. 

But  the  worst  trouble  occurred  at  the  first  per- 
formance in  New  York.  In  those  days  we  used  to 
hold  forth  at  the  Berkely  Lyceum.  Underneath 
the  stage  was  a  gymnasium  which  serv^ed  as  a  green- 
room. Situate,  lying  and  being  in  this  gymnasium 
was  a  swimming  tank;  and  hence  this  tale.  The 
Swede  might  have  knowTi  enough  to  have  had  this 
tank  covered;  but  the  Swede  was  a  busy,  busy  man 
that  night  and  could  not  think  of  everything.  Of 
course,  the  gymnasium  was  put  into  use  for  a  "  winter 
meeting"  by  the  assembled  troupe  while  waiting  for 
the  performance  to  begin.  A  number  of  events  were 
successfully  held,  including  sparring  bouts  between 
Greeks  and  Trojans.  Then  Satan  brought  to  the 
idle  hands  a  rope,  and  therewith  inspired  that  girls' 
chorus  to  challenge  the  well  greaved  Greeks  to  a 
tug-of-war. 

"Just  for  proverbial  verisimilitude,"  suggested 
Randolph. 

119 


The  straining  bands  swayed  back  and  forth  until 
the  ladies  happened  to  come  directly  in  line  with 
the  tank,  with  their  backs  toward  it,  and  close  to 
the  verge.  Then  the  treacherous  Achaeans,  with  a 
glad  shout,  let  go. 

It  was  not  as  bad  as  it  might  have  been.  The 
head  men  on  the  rope  fell  down  in  time  to  save  all 
those  in  the  rear  —  except  the  man  on  the  extreme 
end.  That  was  Dick  Stoughton,  and  he  went  in 
fully,  fairly  and  without  reserve.  His  companions 
expressed  their  satisfaction.  Stoughton  seldom  oc- 
cupied a  prominent  position  of  this  sort,  though 
often  the  cause  of  it  in  others.  Indeed  his  astute- 
ness of  mind,  combined  wdth  a  dark  complexion, 
had  won  for  him  the  sobriquet  of  Machiavelli  the 
Dago.  Therefore  the  diversion,  in  this  instance, 
was  especially  pleasing. 

Then  came  the  question,  "Who  is  going  to  break 
this  to  the  Angry  Swede?"  But  ill  news  travels  by 
itself  like  the  wind.  The  Angry  Swede  was  busy 
upstairs  trying  to  rouse  the  calcium-light  man  from 
a  drunken  stupor.  To  him  thus  occupied  came  a 
rumor,  "The  Trojan  maidens  are  in  the  tank." 
The  Swede  at  first  paid  no  heed  to  the  rumor  fur- 
ther than  to  express  an  earnest,  even  a  devout,  wish 
that  the  Trojan  maidens  were  all  in  the  tank  and 
would  stay  there  —  it  was  the  best  place  for  them. 
But  the  rumor  came  again  with  more  particularity, 
"The  Dago's  a  drowned  man."  Then  he  gave  the 
calcium-light  man  a  last  kick  and  went  leaping 
downstairs. 

There  was  Dick  up  to  his  arm  pits,  his  floating 
draperies  puffed  up  around  his  shoulders  by  the  air 
beneath  like  a  blooming  water  lily,  as  Burleigh  as- 
sured him.  His  friends  were  all  gathered  around 
the  sides  of  the  tank  with  calisthenic  bars  and  In- 
dian clubs  —  not  to  draw  him  to  the  bank,  but 
rather  to  keep  him  in  midstream. 

The  Angry  Swede  inquired  with  a  good  deal  of 

1 20 


fervor  what  under  Heaven  (a  long  way  under)  Mr. 
Stoughton  was  doing  in  the  tank. 

Dick,  floundering  and  sputtering,  repHed  to  the 
effect  that  he  was  playing  croquet;  and  added  an 
opinion  of  the  Angry  Swede,  in  four  words,  perfect 
in  clearness  and  force. 

Then  the  stage  manager  opened  on  him  and  on 
the  girls'  chorus  in  general. 

*'0h,  Mamie,  ain't  he  awful,"  cried  one  of  them. 
"The  idea  of  talking  that  way  to  a  lady.  Let's  go 
home." 

The  mob  drew  back,  however,  and  allowed  Dick 
to  clamber  out. 

''Wring  yourself  out,"  commanded  the  Swede. 
''You  have  twenty  minutes  to  drain  before  you 
go  on." 

"Before  I  go  on!  You  darn  fool,  do  you  suppose 
I'm  going  on  like  this?" 

"You  bet  you  are.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to 
have  the  whole  stage  grouping  upset  and  made  un- 
even just  because  you're  a  Httle  damp?  You  can 
dry  out  so  it  won't  show  much." 

"The  devil  it  won't!  These  skirts  are  all  cling- 
ing round  my  legs,  and  the  paint  will  run  all  over 
my  face." 

"Oh,  you  are  a  beastly  sight!"  assented  the 
chorus. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do!"  exclaimed  Burleigh. 
"It  must  have  rained  sometimes  in  Troy,  and  they 
didn't  have  umbrellas.  Play  there  has  been  a 
shower.  It'll  be  a  startling  and  reahstic  innovation. 
Put 'em  all  in  the  tank." 

Burleigh's  part  in  this  play  was  to  pull  up  the  cur- 
tain. He  generally  managed  to  get  positions  of  that 
sort  and  was  always  helpful.  His  proposition  did  not 
meet  with  general  favor,  however;  in  fact,  Stoughton 
was  the  only  one  who  gave  it  hearty  support. 

"Go  sit  on  the  radiator  and  let  Charley  Garey 
repaint  your  ugly  mug,"  directed  the  Swede. 

121 


"But  I  am  end  man,"  protested  Stoughton. 
"Next  to  the  audience.  You  don't  want  me  to 
keep  that  job  too,  do  you?" 

"No;  you  can  move  back  to  the  middle  of  the 
line,  where  you  won't  show  much.  Everybody  else 
can  move  up  one.  Only  remember,  all  of  you,  if 
you  have  sufficient  intelligence,  that  your  positions 
are  changed  so  that  you  pair  off  with  different  men. 
Now,  all  the  men's  chorus  on  the  stage,"  called  the 
Swede,  and  returned  upstairs. 

"Aha,  this  puts  me  on  the  end,"  chuckled  Jack 
Randolph,  whose  position  in  the  chorus  had  been 
next  to  Dick.  "That  will  be  a  great  improvement 
over  the  low,  ignorant  Eyetalian." 

"By  Jove,  Jack  Randolph!"  exclaimed  the  gen- 
tleman referred  to,  as  he  stood  with  his  back  against 
the  steam  radiator,  "I  believe  this  is  all  your  work! 
Now  I  think  of  it,  you  proposed  the  tug-of-war,  and 
you  let  go  the  rope  just  when  those  d —  Greeks  did. 
I  believe  you  told  them  to!  You  low,  sneaking 
traitor!  And  you  did  it  just  to  do  me  out  of  my  end 
place,  and  get  the  job  yourself,  so  that  you  could 
flirt  with  all  the  girls  in  the  house.  By  thunder!" 
And  Stoughton's  breath  forsook  him  for  indignation. 

"  I  fling  the  base  accusation  from  me.  Your  words 
in  your  teeth,  sir!"  replied  Randolph.  "Upon  my 
word,  Dick,  I  did  n't  know  you  were  next  to  the 
tank.    I  had  no  idea  who  was  going  to  be  elected." 

"Then  you  do  admit  treachery  to  your  fellow- 
maidens,  anyway!"  cried  one  of  them. 

"And  he's  the  very  worst  man  for  the  end  that 
could  possibly  be  picked  out,"  added  another. 
"Always  looking  at  every  girl  in  the  house,  instead 
of  listening  for  his  cues.  He'll  mix  up  everything." 
And  thereunto  they  all  agreed. 

Stoughton's  revenge  came  speedily.  He  had 
dried  out  to  some  extent,  but  not  enough  to  avoid 
leaving  small  puddles  here  and  there  on  the  stage, 
wherever  he  stood  for  any  length  of  time.    One  of 

122 


these  wet  tracks  was  near  the  footlights,  and  Ran- 
dolph, in  trying  to  execute  a  pirouette,  slipped  in  it. 
It  was  generally  alleged  that  at  the  time  he  was 
looking  toward  the  fourth  seat  in  the  second  row, 
instead  of  attending  to  his  business.  This  he  denied; 
but,  at  any  rate,  his  heels  went  up  and  he  went  down 
—  down  over  the  footlights  and  into  the  orchestra, 
where  he  landed  vdih  a  burst  of  sound  in  the  kettle- 
drum. He  was  in  a  doubled-up  posture  and  was  ex- 
tracted with  some  difficulty. 

''Don't  mention  it,  old  man,"  he  said  to  Stough- 
ton,  when  recei\Tng  congratulations  between  the 
acts.  "Your  name  was  on  the  programme,  you 
know,  in  this  position  —  No.  i  of  the  girls'  chorus. 
You  will  get  all  the  credit,  but  I  don't  grudge  you  a 
bit  of  it,  my  dear  boy,  not  a  bit." 

"Gosh!"  exclaimed  Dick  in  paling  accents,  as  the 
situation  dawTied  on  him.  "I  never  thought  of 
that!  Foul  scandal  may  grow  out  of  this.  It  may 
even  get  to  the  Dean.  Wliat  the  blazes  will  he 
think?" 

"Presumably  that  you  were  under  the  influence 
of  liquor.  That's  all.  That's  all  anybody  would 
think.  No  one  would  be  justified  in  supposing  any- 
thing more  than  that,  old  man,  I  am  sure." 

"Good  Lord!"  groaned  Dick. 

"Wasn't  it  dreadful  about  that  Mr.  Stoughton. 
They  say  he  is  such  a  nice  young  fellow,  too,  other- 
wise," went  on  Randolph. 

"Look  here.  Jack,  this  thing  is  getting  serious. 
This  is  no  joke.  Of  course,  you'll  explain  to  the 
Powers  that  Be  that  it  was  you,  won't  you?" 

"The  deuce  I  will,"  replied  Randolph.  "I  don't 
see  why  I  should  go  up  to  the  lion's  den  and  volun- 
teer explanations  before  they  are  asked.  That  would 
look  fishy.  Wait  until  you  get  a  summons,  and  then 
I'll  thmkit  over." 

"It  may  not  be  a  summons.  They  may  just  chalk 
it  up  to  my  score  and  no  questions  asked." 

123 


"Very  likely/'  assented  Randolph. 

And  Machiavelli  retired  to  the  radiator  to  evapo- 
rate and  reflect. 

That  was  at  the  end  of  the  first  act.  Between  the 
second  and  third  Stoughton  was  still  expostulating 
with  Randolph,  when  Burleigh  came  up  with  a 
piece  of  paper  carefully  folded  and  addressed  to 
Mr.  Stoughton.  It  was  a  note  penciled  on  the  back 
of  a  programme  and  ran  as  follows: 

My  dear  Mr.  Stoughton, 

Will  you  not  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
at  a  small  supper  that  I  am  giving  this  evening  after 
the  performance?  I  fear  you  will  think  me  very 
bold  to  send  you  this  invitation  when  I  have  never 
met  you,  and  indeed  have  never  seen  you  before; 
but  you  know  we  southern  girls  are  allowed  preroga- 
tives. I  have  even  deceived  my  chaperon  and  let 
her  think  that  I  know  you  very  well,  so  you  must 
carry  out  the  deception  if  you  come.  I  have  asked 
Mr.  Holworthy  and  Mr.  Hudson  also,  although  I 
don't  know  either  of  them,  and  I  do  hope  you  will 
all  come.  You  will  find  us  at  Delmonico's,  in 
one  of  the  small  rooms  upstairs.  Ask  for  Mrs. 
Douglas,  my  chaperon. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Ella  Pinkham. 

P.  S.  Please  forgive  me  for  laughing  when  you 
fell  into  the  drum. 

When  Dick  had  finished  reading  he  gave  a  long 
whistle  of  satisfaction  and  his  face  lighted  up. 

''This  comes  straight  from  Heaven,"  he  remarked. 
*'Come  over  in  the  corner,  you  Johnny  Reb,  and 
I  '11  show  you  a  zephyr  from  the  sunny,  sunny  south. 
It 's  a  fair  wind,  too,  that  blows  a  great  deal  of  good. 
You  have  n't  entirely  ruined  my  reputation." 

''By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Randolph,  admiringly, 
when  he  had  read  the  epistle.     "She  is  a  crack- 

124 


ajack,  whoever  she  is.  ^lust  be  the  one  in  the 
second  row.  I  felt  sure  she  was  southern.  (He  was 
himself  a  \'irginian.)  Of  course  this  is  intended  for 
me/'  he  added. 

''Oh,  it  is,  is  it?"  replied  Dick.  "How  long  has 
your  name  been  Stoughton?" 

"Why,  don't  you  see,  Dick,  she  took  the  name 
from  the  programme.  The  postscript  makes  it  per- 
fectly clear  who  is  m-eant." 

"Different  from  the  Dean,  isn't  it?"  observed 
Dick.  "I  suppose  you  think  you  were  picked  out 
for  your  looks,  just  because  she  included  Steve 
Hudson  and  the  handsome  Holworthy,  the  lead- 
ing star.  Let  me  tell  you  that  a  name  coimts  for 
a  great  deal,  too.  She  probably  included  me  in 
the  beauty  show  on  account  of  my  distinguished 
family." 

"Stuff!  You  woolly  westerner,  she  would  a  great 
deal  rather  meet  a  man  named  Randolph.  !Man 
alive,  you  can't  accept  an  in\dtation  that  is  n't 
meant  for  you.  WTiat  do  you  want  it  for,  any^-ay? 
You  never  go  near  a  girl." 

"WTio  said  anything  about  accepting  it?  I  am 
going  to  regret  that  I  have  an  engagement." 

"Well,  that  is  the  most  dog-in-the-manger  thing 
I  ever  heard  of  I" 

"See  here,  young  fellow,"  said  Dick,  after  fur- 
ther argument,  "if  I  give  you  this  bid  and  allow 
you  to  m^asquerade  under  my  honored  name,  you 
know  what  you  will  have  to  do?" 

"I  suppose  you  want  me  to  explain  things  to  the 
Dean.    All  right.    I  intended  to  do  that  anway." 

"Sudden  reformation.  You  will  first  comince 
him  thoroughly  as  to  the  mistaken  identity.  After 
that  you  can  make  such  further  explanations  to  him 
on  the  liquor  question  as  may  commend  themselves 
to  you;  I  leave  that  part  entirely  to  you.  Xow,  do 
you  know  my  Aunt  Jane  Prudens  who  lives  in  Dor- 
chester?   No?    Well,  I  will  take  you  out  there  to 

125 


lunch  some  Sunday.    You  will  make  it  all  perfectly 
clear  to  her." 

Randolph  demurred  somewhat  at  Aunt  Jane,  but 
finally  agreed. 

''Then  there  is  Cousin  John,  pastor  of  the  Third 
Baptist  Church  of  Chestnut  Hill." 

''  You  're  lying.  There  is  no  Third  Baptist  Church 
in  Chestnut  Hill." 

"Then  it's  the  Second  Methodist;  that's  quite 
immaterial,"  pursued  Dick. 

"■  D —  it,  I  did  n't  know  you  had  so  many  rela- 
tions in  Boston,"  complained  Jack,  after  Dick  had 
named  half  a  dozen  others;  but  he  accepted  the 
terms  in  full,  the  more  readily  as  he  entertained 
doubts  as  to  the  genuineness  of  the  Dago's  alleged 
family. 

"Now  I  will  do  you  a  further  favor,"  said  Dick. 
**A  piece  of  good  advice.  Keep  out  of  this  thing. 
Don't  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"You'll  get  into  some  kind  of  an  awkward  posi- 
tion. It  does  n't  strike  me  as  quite  comme  il  fauL 
In  fact,  it  strikes  me  as  very  improper." 

"Rot!"  was  the  argument  in  reply.  "Who  gave 
you  that  idea?  Aunt  Jane  or  Cousin  John?  That 
girl  is  splendid." 

"Who  are  the  Pinkhams  anjrway?"  queried 
Stoughton.     "First  families  of  Virginia?" 

"I  can't  quite  place  them,  but  I  know  I  have 
heard  the  name  before." 

"It's  an  idiotic  name  —  Ella  Pinkham." 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind.  It's  a  charming 
name." 

"And  it's  a  very  unladylike  handwriting.  Al- 
most illiterate." 

"Stop  your  rude  tongue;  you  don't  know  a  lady's 
chirography  when  you  see  it.  It's  full  of  character." 
And  Randolph  went  off  to  find  Holworthy  and 
Hudson. 

126 


They  had  received  similar  notes.  Holworthy  re- 
gretted that  he  had  another  engagement  and  could 
not  accept,  and  was  thereupon  accused  by  Jack  of 
falsehood,  insincerity  and  putting  on  airs.  But 
Hudson  was  enthusiastic.  They  all  three  wrote 
their  replies  on  scraps  of  paper  and  gave  them  to 
Burleigh  to  deliver  at  the  proscenium  door  to  the 
usher  who  had  brought  the  notes.  Hudson,  peering 
out  through  the  only  hole  in  the  curtain,  reported 
that  the  notes  had  been  delivered  to  the  beauty  in 
the  second  row. 

Then  the  Angry  Swede  drove  them  all  back  to 
the  greenroom,  and  called  the  men's  chorus  for  the 
third  act. 

After  the  performance,  Hudson,  not  having  worn 
his  evening  clothes  to  the  theater,  said  he  would  go 
home  to  dress  and  would  meet  Randolph  at  the 
supper.  Randolph  hurried  around  to  the  hotel  to 
do  the  same  thing,  refusing  a  pressing  in\dtation  to 
supper  from  Rattleton  and  Burleigh,  while  the  Dago 
Stoughton  made  sarcastic  comments. 

When  he  had  finally  removed  the  paint  from  his 
face,  and  arrayed  himself  to  his  satisfaction,  he 
hastened  to  Delmonico's  in  full  apparel,  and  at  the 
door  inquired  for  Airs.  Douglas's  room. 

He  was  at  once  ushered  upstairs.  The  door  of  a 
room  was  thro\\Ti  open.  He, entered,  and  found 
sitting  in  a  row  with  their  chairs  tipped  back  against 
the  wall  and  an  eager  expression  of  appetite  in  their 
faces  —  the  Gang. 

"That  girl  is  splendid,"  obser\^ed  Burleigh,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  ''You  might  know  she  was 
a  southerner." 

"I  did  n't  go  home  to  dress,  Jack,  for  fear  of  being 
late,"  explained  Hudson. 

"I  changed  my  mind  and  thought  I  would  come 
after  all,"  added  Holworthy. 

"It's  a  charming  name  —  Ella  Pinkham.  One 
of  the  first  families  of  the  south,"  put  in  Gray. 

127 


**Is  she  any  relation  of  the  lady  who  is  noted  for 
health  or  something  or  other?"  drawled  Rattleton, 

*^ Pretty  handwriting,  too.     Lots  of  character,'' 
said  Gray. 

''I  warned  him  he  might  get  in  an  awkward  posi- 
tion," said  the  Dago. 

"Never  monkey  with  Machiavelli,"   said  Bur- 
leigh. 

And  Randolph  paid  for  the  supper. 

W.  K.  Post,  '90. 


HOW  THE  PROFESSOR  MADE  BOTH  ENDS 

MEET 

One  cannot  tell  just  why  or  wherefore 

Things  happen  on  this  world  we're  in, 
Why  this  you  like  and  that  don't  care  for, 
WTiy  this  is  thus  and  that  not  —  therefore 

This  ballad  has  its  origin. 
For  in  this  classical  location 

There  lived  a  Prof  most  erudite 
Who,  though  harsh  Greek  was  his  vocation, 
Was  troubled  by  the  strange  temptation  — 
An  inward,  odd,  infatuation  — 
To  leave  his  Cambridge  habitation 

And  be  a  missionary  light. 

He  took  his  leave  next  day  and  started 

Off  on  his  trip  through  Southern  Seas; 
He  left  his  home,  sad,  broken-hearted, 
With  no  farewells  or  cheers  departed 

And  few  of  the  formalities. 
He  left  a  note  of  explanation, 

His  will,  his  fur-lined  coat  and  soap 
(The  last  without  premeditation, 
'T  was  mislaid  on  the  way  to  station.) 

128 


And  after  months  of  na\'igation 
He  landed  full  of  expectation 
Upon  the  Friendly  Isles  of  hope. 

He  started  well  as  a  beginner, 

But  learned  w^ithin  a  single  week 
A  cannibal  was  every  sinner, 
And  hinted  reference  to  dinner 

Made  him  both  full  of  tact  and  meek. 
He  labored  then  without  cessation 

To  break  them  of  this  heinous  habit, 
And  added  to  ''Talks  on  Salvation" 
*'\\Tiat  One  Should  Eat,"  as  peroration. 
He  hated  the  anticipation 
Of  entering  some  preparation 

Like  Soup,  Club  Sandwich  or  Welsh  Rabbit. 

Alas,  't  is  best  the  sooner  stated  — 

This  tale's  a  tearful  tragedy; 
The  poor  Professor's  end  was  fated, 
WTiich  end  was  not  enumerated, 

He  perished  in  totality. 
They  serv-ed  the  man  of  erudition 

In  some  Sea  Island  dish  of  note. 
They  did  not  pause  for  his  permission, 
But  baked  and  boiled  him  with  precision; 
And  in  this  modified  condition 
He  occupied  the  chief  position 

That  day  upon  the  Table  d'Hote. 

But  stealthily  revenge  came  stealing. 
Harsh  Greek  had  left  its  bitter  sting. 

Soon  o'er  the  diners  crept  a  feeling. 

And  indigestion  sent  them  squealing 
With  groans  of  anguish  deafening. 

They  curled  up  in  excruciation 

For  Soda  Mints  were  unknown  then  — 
129 


They  cursed  in  vile  vituperation 
The  author  of  their  inflammation, 
But  in  this  very  defamation 
He  gained  his  worthy  aspiration  — 
They  vowed  they  W  ne  ^er  eat  man  again. 

E.   L.    McKlNNEY,  'l2. 

THE    EX-PRESIDENT    OF    THE    RUSSIAN 
REPUBLIC 

I  don't  know  what  impulse  it  was  that  made  me 
seek  out  Mme.  Guyot's  cafe.  I  had  been  sitting 
all  day  in  the  studio  of  my  friend,  Jarniere,  watch- 
ing him  paint  his  dynamic  expression  of  Venus,  and 
I  think  it  must  have  been  the  impossibility  of  her 
left  foot  that  sent  me  out  into  the  cool  night  air  of 
the  Boulevard  Mont  Parnasse. 

Mme.  Guyot's  cafe  is  the  smallest  and  most 
squalid  of  all  the  many  cafes  that  are  sprinkled 
about  that  celebrated  quarter  of  Paris.  But  Mm.e. 
Guyot  herself  is  an  angel  —  or  was  in  the  days  of 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  when  she  had  posed  for  St. 
Catarine. 

The  cafe  was  deserted  sav>e  for  one  person,  who 
sat  under  the  flickering  gaslight  on  the  sidewalk 
reading  a  journal.  As  I  passed,  the  reader  heaved 
a  profound  sigh  and  puffed  out  a  great  cloud  of 
smoke.  She  was  a  curious  figure  —  huge,  thick, 
with  large  hands  which  gripped  with  a  singular 
tenacity  the  smudgy  sheets  of  the  issue  of  L'An- 
archiste  for  August  i,  1930.  Her  clothes  were  the 
filthiest  rags  and  hung  about  her  like  tattered 
draperies;  over  her  head  and  veiling  absolutely  her 
face  was  a  dirty  mantilla  of  some  very  ancient 
period. 

''Bon  soir,"  I  said,  sitting  down  at  the  next  table. 
Mme.  Guyot's  was  so  small  that  one  spoke  to 
one's  neighbors  as  a  matter  of  course. 

130 


The  face  was  raised  from  the  pages  of  VAn- 
archiste  and  I  felt  a  pair  of  searching  eyes  scruti- 
nizing me  from  top  to  toe.  I  feared  the  lady  dumb, 
as  she  made  no  reply,  and  was  about  to  pick  up  my 
journal  when  with  a  greater  puff  of  smoke  than  be- 
fore she  answered  —  ''B'  soir!" 

Her  voice  was  a  deep  masculine  rumble!  I 
started  in  my  seat  in  surprise.  This  colossus  was  no 
woman. 

"You  sighed!"  I  said,  hoping  to  draw  the  reader 
of  UAnarchiste  into  an  interesting  conversation. 

Again  I  was  looked  over  with  the  same  thor- 
oughness. When  satisfied  as  to  my  character,  my 
neighbor  suddenly  thrust  the  paper  in  front  of  my 
eyes. 

"Voyez  done!"  he  muttered  in  a  suppressed 
voice.  "Do  you  see  what  they're  doing  now? 
Ah!"  and  he  took  a  long  pull  at  his  pipe. 

I  read  the  flaring  headlines  —  "  Russian  Empire 
Reestablished.    Another  Chance  for  Us,  Brothers." 

"Ah!"  I  replied,  "I  had  not  heard  definitely. 
The  Republic  then  was  a  failure?" 

My  companion  looked  carefully  about  him.  Then 
he  flung  back  his  mantilla,  satisfied  that  we  were 
alone.  I  looked  into  a  great  dark  face,  lined  with 
wrinkles  —  a  powerful  face  and  that  of  a  man  long 
past  middle  age.  His  hair  was  still  black,  how- 
ever, and  shrouded  his  head  like  the  shaggy  coat  of 
a  Newfoundland. 

"Do  you  know  me?*'  he  asked,  leaning  forward. 

"You're  surely  not  Didon,  the  man  who  threw 
the  bomb  at  Edward  VHI?"  I  questioned,  draw- 
ing back  in  repulsion. 

The  great  figure  uttered  almost  a  sob.  "M'sieu, 
you  look  into  the  features  of  Kovkovcko,  late  Presi- 
dent of  the  Russian  Repubhc!" 

"You?"  I  said  doubtfully.  I  was  racking  my 
brains  to  remember  the  name.  It  seemed  entirely 
new  to  me.    "  Will  you  —  tell  me?  " 

131 


The  ex-President  of  the  Russian  Republic  moved 
over  to  my  table.  The  chair  creaked  under  his 
weight.  At  my  command  Mme.  Guyot  brought 
another  vermouth  and  soda  and  left  us  to  go  and 
snore  away  the  evening  in  her  parlor. 

''It's  a  simple  story,"  began  the  ex-President, 
alternately  sipping  his  vermouth  and  puffing  at  his 
great  black  pipe.  "It  was  the  last  year  of  the  great 
European  War  which  broke  out  against  Germany  in 
19 14.  I  was  then  First  Chamberlain  to  the  Tsar, 
his  most  trusted  friend  and  confidential  secretary. 
I  exerted  some  strange  fascination  over  the  Emperor. 
He  would  not  smoke  a  cigar  or  taste  a  dish  or  drink 
a  glass  of  vodka  without  first  having  me  try  them. 
How  he  loved  me,  my  liege! 

''Eh  bien,  the  war,  as  you  have  read,  was  unpopu- 
lar everywhere.  Especially  the  Russian  people 
hated  it  because  it  made  still  more  miserable  their 
miserable  lot.  The  people  murmured  all  the  fall; 
in  the  winter  the  murmur  had  become  a  roar;  by 
February  the  insurrection  in  St.  Petersburg  began 
in  earnest. 

"  On  the  twelfth  of  the  month  the  Tsar  entered  the 
city  by  aeroplane  to  celebrate  his  birthday.  All 
the  next  day  a  crowd  gathered  in  the  great  square, 
the  front  of  the  Winter  Palace.  The  soldiers  were 
powerless  against  them,  and  soon  their  numbers, 
which  increased  hourly  by  the  thousands,  were  press- 
ing against  the  barriers  of  the  palace  gate.  The 
entire  Square,  colossal  as  it  is,  was  jammed  with  a 
black  mass  that  seemed  almost  coagulate. 

"I  can  hear  their  roarings  now.  They  are  not 
great  singers,  the  Russian  people,  but  not  less  than 
five  times  I  distinctly  heard  the  Marseillaise  sung  in 
G  flat  with  a  hatred  that  rendered  the  Square  side 
of  the  Winter  Palace  very  unpleasant. 

"The  Tsar  was  frankly  nervous.  He  changed 
from  one  uniform  to  another  and  took  off  and  put 
on  his  decorations  and  orders  with  the  most  mar- 

132 


velous  dexterity  and  perseverance.  His  valets  by 
noon  were  completely  exhausted.  I  was  kept  busy 
the  entire  day  taking  the  first  puff  from  each  of  his 
cigarettes.    He  smoked  incessantly. 

"By  five  o'clock  the  terrible  din  outside  began 
to  wear  on  me.  I  took  the  Odessa  Police  Gazette 
to  the  river  side  of  the  palace  and  there  lay  down  to 
read,  the  subdued  cries  of  'Glatschiscka'  forming  a 
pleasant  accompaniment  to  my  story." 

"Pardon,"  I  interrupted,  "but  what  does  lat  — 
er  —  glater  —  what  does  that  word  mean?  " 

"Glatschiscka?"  queried  my  companion. 
"Blood!" 

I  shuddered.  The  ex-President  of  the  Russian 
Republic  continued  after  a  long  pull  at  his  ver- 
mouth. 

"At  a  quarter  of  sLx  a  frightful  crash  resounded 
through  the  palace,  but  as  I  thought  it  was  only  the 
Tsarevitch  taking  pot  shots  at  the  chandeliers  in  the 
Throne  Room,  I  continued  reading. 

"Two  minutes  later,  however,  the  door  to  my 
room  was  thrown  desperately  open.  The  Tsar 
stood  in  the  doorway.  He  was  dressed  as  an  ad- 
miral of  the  Norwegian  na\n^,  covered  from  head  to 
foot  vdth.  decorations  and  medals.  This  was  the 
forty-eighth  uniform  that  he  had  put  on  that  day. 

"'Sire!'  I  cried,  laying  aside  the  Odessa  Gaz- 
ette in  some  annoyance  and  standing  erect  before 
him. 

"'Kovkovcko,'  he  replied,  his  teeth  chattering  so 
that  my  name  sounded  Hke  a  runaway  horse  on 
the  concrete  pavement  of  the  Nevsky  Prospekt; 
'Kovkovcko,  they've  c-c-c-come!' 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  American  caviare  that  I 
had  ordered  the  day  before.  'Has  the  Lord  Chef  ski 
put  them  in  the  icebox?'   I  asked. 

"'Kovkovcko,'  chattered  His  Imperial  Majesty, 
'it's  not  the  c-c-caviare,  it's  the  people!' 

"'Oh!'  I  replied  blankly. 

133 


"I  wondered  what  we  ought  to  do. 

"We  listened,  but  the  Tsar's  knees  knocked  to- 
gether so  loudly  that  all  other  sounds  were  inaudible. 

"'Your  Majesty/  I  said  with  the  greatest  polite- 
ness, 'be  seated/ 

*'The  Tsar  complied,  but  total  quiet  was  not  re- 
stored until  at  my  solicitatk)n  he  slipped  a  sofa, 
pillow  between  his  teeth. 

"We  could  hear  the  people  below  us,  above  us,  all 
around  us.  They  were  hacking,  hewing,  shouting, 
screaming,  laughing,  tearing,  thumping,  scratching 
—  it  sounded  like  a  chorus  from  'Elektra.'" 

Here  the  ex-President  of  the  Russian  Republic 
laughed  a  ventral  laugh.  He  referred,  I  suppose,  to 
the  long-forgotten  opera  of  Strauss. 

"I  saw  that  som.ething  had  to  be  done  quickly. 
So  I  seized  the  Tsar  in  my  arms,  and,  strong  though 
I  was,  I  staggered  under  the  weight  of  his  decora- 
tions, for  he  was  wearing  considerably  over  eighty 
pounds  of  medals.  His  crown  alone,  which  he 
carried  in  his  hand,  weighed  thirty- two  pounds. 

"My  only  idea  was  to  hide  him  somewhere  in 
safety.  I  carried  him  out  of  my  study  on  the  river 
side  and  hurried  to  the  Tsarina^s  apartments. 
Something  dark  and  motionless  lay  huddled  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  Tsar  gave  a  fearful  cry  and 
dropped  his  crown  on  the  floor.  It  went  bumping 
down  the  stairway  at  our  feet  and  stopped  finally 
against  Her  Majesty's  rubbers  after  shedding  over 
forty  million  rubles'  worth  of  jewels  on  the  trip  down, 

"I  certainly  could  not  hide  the  Tsar  there. 

"I  staggered  with  him  into  the  Coronation  Hall, 
now  a  scene  of  frightful  carnage,  for  they  had  been 
there  before  us.  The  colossal  room  lay  in  ruins. 
Part  of  the  throne  hung  from  the  great  chandelier. 
The  Tsarevitch's  sword  and  hi?  right  shoe  gave 
circumstantial  evidence  of  his  sad  fate. 

"The  Tsar  picked  them  up  and  burst  into  fresh 
sobs.    I  hastily  carried  him  into  the  Picture  Room, 

134 


where  were  the  portraits  of  every  Romanoff  ruler. 
Each  picture  had  been  systematically  ruined,  for 
someone  with  devilish  ingenuity  and  a  blunt  pen- 
knife had  decapitated  the  rulers  of  Russia  for  the 
last  two  hundred  years.  Forty-eight  Grand  Dukes 
lay  piled  one  on  top  of  another  in  the  center  of  the 
hall. 

"I  hurried  desperately  from  one  room  to  another. 
Everywhere,  everywhere  the  same  story!  Not  a 
place  to  hide  the  Tsar  in!  Carnage,  blood  and 
destruction  surrounded  us  on  all  sides.  I  felt  a 
little  faint:   the  Tsar  was  inert. 

"Then  I  conceived  a  brilliant  idea.  'I  have  it, 
Sire!    We'll  hold  a  Referendum.' 

"His  Majesty  looked  vague. 

"'A  public  appeal.  We'll  go  out  on  the  balcony 
and  refer  you  to  the  people!' 

"'But  supposing  I  get  vetoed!'  chattered  the 
Tsar  piteously. 

"'This  is  not  time  for  guesswork,'  I  cried,  and 
dragged  him  to  the  great  balcony  overlooking  the 
Square,  where  Peter  the  Great  had  received  the 
plaudits  of  his  nation  after  Pultowa. 

"I  went  out  on  the  balcony  first,  dragging  the 
prostrate  form  of  the  Tsar  after  me. 

"'Good  people  of  Russia,'  I  shouted,  silencing 
them  with  a  gesture.  'Regardez,  mes  Enfants! 
Le  Petit  Pere!' 

"And  with  this  I  raised  up  the  crumpled  form 
of  the  Tsar  and  propped  it  against  the  balcony's 
railing. 

"A  thunderous,  snarling  roar  arose,  sliivering  the 
chill  winter  air.  It  beat  against  the  skies,  it  rever- 
berated in  the  mines  of  Siberia,  it  reached  through 
the  stricken  halls  of  the  palace  and  burst  on  my 
ears  like  a  great  whitecap  breaking  on  a  desert  shore. 

"There  was  a  simultaneous  movement  among 
the  crowd. 

"I  stepped  a  little  to  one  side  and  the  Tsar  raised 

135 


his  hand  feebly  to  adjust  the  crown  that  was  no 
longer  there. 

''Then  came  the  crash. 

''One  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  men  stood 
in  the  Square  of  the  Winter  Palace  that  February 
night;  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  men  at 
exactly  the  same  moment  leveled  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  revolvers  at  the  Tsar  and  fired 
one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  shots,  winged 
on  their  fatal  way  by  the  hatred  of  years  of 
oppression  and  poverty!"  The  ex-President  of  the 
Russian  Republic  leaned  forward  and  almost  hissed 
in  my  ear  —  "And  everyone  of  those  shots  took 
effect." 

"Nom  de  Dieu,"  I  gasped,  "every  one?" 

"Everyone!"  returned  the  grim  figure.  "When 
I  turned  the  Tsar  was  no  longer  by  my  side;  the 
balcony  was  quite  empty.  Look!"  Here  he  fum- 
bled in  his  skirt  pocket.  "I  picked  this  up  on  the 
balcony  floor."  And  he  showed  me  a  tarnished 
medal  with  a  tattered  ribbon  attached.  "That," 
he  added  significantly,  "that  is  my  master,  the 
Tsar  of  Russia." 

He  laid  the  Tsar's  remains  on  the  dirty  table  and 
I  stared  at  them.  "  Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned 
to  clay,  might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away!" 
I  murmured. 

My  friend  the  ex-President  smiled  grimly  as  he 
restored  his  master's  remains  to  his  pocket. 

"And  then  — ?"  I  suggested. 

"And  then,"  he  continued  proudly,  "then  I  was 
the  man  of  the  hour.  I  was  acclaimed  on  all  sides. 
One  said  that  I  had  brought  the  Tsar  from  his 
hiding  to  justice.  I  was  made  a  popular  idol,  and 
when  it  came  election  time  I  was  chosen  President  by 
a  vast  majority.  The  little  father,"  he  said  intro- 
spectively,  "never  knew  he  was  going  to  do  me  such 
a  service.  He  was  a  good  master,  though  —  I 
haven't  touched  a  cigarette  since  that  day!"    My 

136 


companion  patted  almost  reverently  the  pocket  in 
which  the  tarnished  medal  lay. 

"And  your  presidency,"  I  asked,  "was  that 
glorious?" 

The  man  beside  me  laughed  bitterly. 

"Glorious?"  he  repeated.  "Glorious!  Who  can 
say?    It  was  too  brief." 

He  paused.    I  kept  silent,  wondering. 

At  length  he  said  in  gentle  voice,  "I  was  Presi- 
dent of  Russia  for  just  two  days.  They  declared 
that  in  that  time  I  had  falsified  the  accounts  of  the 
nation  to  the  extent  of  fourteen  million  rubles." 

"Fourteen  million  rubles  in  two  days!"  I  cried 
aghast.  "That's  the  most  atrocious  implication 
that  I  have  ever  heard." 

The  ex-President  of  the  Russian  Republic  looked 
at  me  curiously.  "Implication!"  he  cried,  "Bah! 
the  pigs!  I  spit  on  them.  To  think  that  I,  Dmitri 
Kovkovcko,  who  for  thirty  years  had  falsified  the 
imperial  accounts  of  the  greatest  empire  m  the  world 
should  have  been  discovered  by  some  miserable  pigs 
of  RepubUcans  —  and  only  fourteen  million  rubles 
at  that!" 

The  great  body  of  the  ex-President  of  the  Russian 
Republic  shook  with  genuine  sobs.  He  laid  his  head 
down  on  the  second  table  from  the  right  in  Mme. 
Guyot's  cafe  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

One  by  one  the  city  clocks  struck  the  hour  of 
eleven.  Putting  a  five-franc  piece  by  the  great 
clenched  fist  of  my  friend  the  ex-President,  I  stole 
silently  away. 

Robert  Cutler,  'i6. 

THE  DREAMER  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Above  towered  the  gaunt,  snow-capped  mountain; 
below  lay  the  emerald-tinted  lake  —  deep,  mys- 
terious and  ice-cold;  everywhere  was  the  sepulchral 
silence  of  the  solitude. 

137 


**Yes,"  repeated  the  old  man,  '"t's  about  forty 
years  now  that  I've  been  out  here  prospecting." 

"Any  partner?"  I  inquired. 

"No,"  he  replied,  "I  figure  that  all  a  partner  is 
good  for  is  to  take  half  the  profits.  I've  had  all 
the  work,  and  I'm  going  to  have  all  the  reward." 

On  we  climbed  up  the  almost  indiscernible  trail, 
our  sure-footed  cayuses  stepping  over  fallen  tree 
trunks,  feeling  their  way  through  treacherous  roll- 
ing stones,  and  treading  gingerly  along  narrow  ledges. 

"Where  do  you  call  your  home?"   I  asked. 

"England,"  he  answered,  "most  everybody  here 
in  British  Columbia  comes  from  England.  You 
see,  my  father  was  a  squire,  but  like  many  others  he 
had  very  little  except  his  land.  I  was  his  youngest 
son,  and  —  well,  there  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal 
more  chance  over  here  than  there  was  at  home.  I 
was  so  infernally  certain  that  I  was  going  to  make 
my  fortune,  that  I  married  just  before  I  sailed  and 
brought  my  wife  with  me.  This  country  is  a  bit 
rougher  than  we  expected,  and  Gertrude  was  n't 
very  strong,  and  —  and  she  could  n't  stand  it  for 
more  than  two  years." 

In  the  pause  he  pulled  out  his  pipe  and  I  passed 
him  my  tobacco.    Then  he  continued: 

"Since  then,  I've  been  prospecting  through  these 
mountains,  and  I've  found  something  —  yes,  I've 
found  something  —  this  claim  I'm  going  to  show 
you  is  worth  a  hundred  million  dollars,  anyway; 
I  can  show  you  that  much  that  I've  already  un- 
covered. Underneath  there  must  be  billions  and 
billions.  This  is  one  shaft  here,  right  above  us; 
I'll  prove  that  I'm  telling  the  truth." 

We  dismounted  and  clambered  up  to  a  shallow  cave. 

"Here,"  said  the  old  man,  knocking  off  a  piece  of 
the  rust-colored  rock  with  his  hammer,  "take  this 
and  see  if  it  is  n't  just  as  rich  as  I  say." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  have  it  analyzed,"  I  agreed. 
"Have  you  ever  had  it  tested  before?" 

138 


"No,"  lie  admitted,  ''haven't,  but  I  gness  I've 
seen  enough  ore  to  know  when  it  is  rich." 

"  But  how  will  you  carry  it  out  of  here?  It  must 
be  fifty  miles  to  the  railroad." 

''The  Kootenay  River  is  only  thirty-five  miles, 
and  I  thought  that  maybe  you  could  build  a  railway 
line  up  here.  It's  not  more  than  a  two-thousand- 
foot  rise." 

'"WTiewM"  I  ejaculated,  " you M  need  your  hun- 
dred million  ail  right." 

"Well/'  he  suggested,  ^'you  might  take  it  out 
"with  pack  horses." 

''But  the  time,  think  of  the  time!  It  would  take 
about  ten  years  to  get  out  enough  to  pay  for  yonr 
liorses.  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  buy. 
Still,  if  I  see  anybody  whom  I  think  would  be  in- 
terested, I'U  tdl  them  about  it," 

"  Good-bye,"  called  the  old  man  as  I  started  down 
the  mountain  again,  leaAdng  him  standing  in  front 
of  his  log  cabin,  '"'remember  tha.t  there's  a  hun- 
dred million  dollars  right  in  sight." 

"I'll  remember,"  I  mused,  "  that  a  man  may  have 
a  hundred  xnillion  dollars  and  yet  be  penniless." 

The  sun  sank  beliind  a  rugged  peak;  far  away  a 
coyote  howled;  over  ever^lhing  settled  the  im- 
penetrable, relentless  spirit  of  the  mountains. 

T.  TiLESTON  Baldwin,  js.,  '12. 


THE  PICKLE  OF  THE  PAST 

A  PICKLE-LIME  's  a  little  thing. 
And  seldom  used  in  lofty  rhyme; 

Though  poets  very  often  sing 

Of  grapes  that  rare  enchantments  bring, 

Of  olive  trees  in  shady  ring. 

Of  ruddy  apples  mieliowing  — 

They  never  know  w^hat  thoughts  can  ding 
About  the  humble  pickle-Hme. 

i39 


Yet  I  remember,  with  a  sigh, 
That  happy,  but  far-distant  time, 

When  she  and  I  one  day  did  buy 

Four  golden  pickle-limes,  to  try 

And  suck  them  absolutely  dry. 

Upon  her  cheek  some  juice  did  lie, 

So.  with  my  lips,  politely  I 
Removed  those  drops  of  pickle-lime. 

The  apple  red  and  fair  may  be, 
The  laden  vines  that  cling  and  climb 

Are  useful,  we  must  all  agree, 

And  I  respect  the  olive  tree; 

But  none  can  bring  such  thoughts  to  me 

As  surge  from  far  antiquity 

Whenever  I  may  chance  to  see 
A  humble  penny  pickle-lime. 

H.  A.  Bellows,  'o6. 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR 

To-day  I  wandered  forth  across  the  down, 

At  peace  with  Hfe  I  laid  me  in  the  grass; 

I  marked  the  towering  clouds  high-heaped  pass 

And  mused  an  ancient  tale  of  old  renown: 

How  on  the  backs  of  clouds  that  earthward  frown 

Are  proudly  borne  in  lofty-builded  mass 

Huge  citadels  and  lords  in  brave  cuirass 

And  ladies  fair  of  form  and  rich  of  gown. 

At  length  I  homeward  trudged,  but  dreaming  yet, 

Me  thought  I  lay  upon  a  filmy  cloud 

And  listed  to  a  tinkling  rivulet. 

And  gazed  upon  a  cloud-borne  maiden  proud  — 

But  then  a  mortal  maid  I  chanced  to  see 

That  teased  me  from  such  foolish  company. 

ScoriELD  Thayer,  '13. 
140 


ON  THE  DECORATION  OF  COLLEGE  ROOMS 

Quid  leges  sine  morihus  vance  proficiunt  ? 

—  Horace,  Odes,  HI,  24. 

I  HAVE  at  hand  a  letter  originally  intended  as  a 
communication  to  the  Crimson,  I  judge,  basing  this 
decision  on  its  general  style  and  structure.  For  the 
sake  of  the  printer  and  readers,  as  well  as  the 
author,  I  shall  not  quote  it  entire.  The  general 
purport,  however,  is  that  the  correspondent  de- 
sires me  to  preach  in  reference  to  the  furnishing  of 
college  rooms.  He  inquires  as  to  the  present  fashion, 
as  to  the  passing  of  the  poster  and  as  to  the  present 
rank  of  Charles  Dana  Gibson  as  an  interior  decora- 
tor. 

My  readers  mil  not,  I  hope,  seek  to  refute  the 
statements  which  follow  by  referring  to  the  rooms 
of  their  friends  at  present.  It  is  not  the  style  of 
decoration  just  now  in  use,  but  the  general  tendency, 
that  should  be  considered  by  all  conservative  Fresh- 
men. 

Thus  fortified,  I  pronounce  my  dicta.  The  gen- 
eral tendency  is  toward  "mission"  morris  chairs, 
French  clocks,  rope  fire-escapes,  old  brass,  the 
Crimson  (draped  over  wire  hooks)  and  ''Portland 
Street  prints."  Incongruous,  you  say?  Of  course. 
Each  article  is  appropriate  in  its  place,  but  the  com- 
bination is,  to  say  the  least,  grotesque.  Yet  the 
possessors  of  these  treasures  deem  themselves  con- 
servative! Deducing  from  such  obvious  details,  we 
may  expect  to  see,  after  a  year  or  two,  kerosene 
lamps,  spider-legged  escritoires,  WTiistler  prmts, 
tea  sets  and  the  Monthly  universally  used.  There 
may  even  be  a  return  to  the  pretty  pink  sea  shells 
of  grandmother's  time! 

As  to  the  poster  fad,  of  recent  years,  I  may  cite  a 
case  in  point.  Perhaps  it  will  clear  up  other  ques- 
tions by  the  way.    I  know  a  man  who,  w^hen  he  en- 

141 


tered  Harvard  last  year,  was  neither  a  yard-room 
holder  nor  a  bondholder,  so  he  rented  temporarily 
an  cight-by-twenty  hall  bedroom,  about  a  mile  from 
IMemorial  Hall. 

"Go  to,"  said  he.  *^This  is  my  college  room,  and 
collegiate  it  shall  be,"  and  he  furnished  it  accord- 
ingly. Some  very  nice  weathered  oak,  some  flam- 
ing theater  posters,  a  school  flag  and  some  antago- 
nistic pillows  looked  well,  but  incomplete.  He  cast 
about  him  to  find  the  finishing  touch.  He  found  it 
one  evening,  in  the  gutter.  It  was  a  placard  read- 
ing thus: 

LOOK  OUT,  paint! 

''A  novelty,  in  sooth,"  quoth  the  Freshman,  as 
he  tacked  it  on  his  chiffonier.  Then,  taking  his  new 
banjo  (an  article  of  furniture  no  longer  necessary  to 
the  '^ college  man"),  he  sat  in  his  new  morris  chair 
and  tried  to  play  "Up  the  Street"  in  a  new  key, 
all  the  while  admiring  his  effect. 

"Breezy  as  —  as  March  hair!"  he  cried,  being 
an  observant  fusser,  and  something  of  a  punster. 
"How  'twill  startle  the  landlady!  How  'twill  de- 
light my  college  friends  when  they  call!"  But, 
alas!  Only  two  guests  ever  traveled  that  weary 
mile,  and  on  each  of  those  occasions  he  hesitatingly 
concealed  his  placard!  He  w^as  not  quite  sure  of  the 
custom,  you  see. 

Some  months  later,  he  moved  into  a  dormitory 
room  with  another  "poster  fiend,"  and  by  consoli- 
dating property  the  two  contrived  to  set  off  their 
crimson  wall  paper  very  effectively.  Friends  ex- 
claimed (principally,  it  must  be  confessed,  at  the 
profusion  of  posters).  Popular  music  on  the  piano 
and  some  steins  completed  their  display.  Custom 
now  had  them  fast  in  its  hold. 

This  year  the  hold  was  scuttled.  Behold  their 
room  today.     Dark  paper,  oriental  portieres,  Bee- 

142 


thoven  sonatas,  plaster  casts,  chocolate  cups  pre- 
dominate, and  the  friends  that  marveled  formerly 
now  say,  "How  much  better  it  looks!  I  always  did 
hate  posters.    It's  so  literary,  too!" 

There  is  the  keynote.  Literary!  Shifting  custom 
decrees  today  that  even  the  athlete  and  the  grind 
must  seek  to  be  "literary."  Witness  the  falling  off 
in  attendance  at  Gore  Hall,  and  the  increase  at  the 
Union  library.  That  custom,  I  think,  accounts  for 
the  present  decoration  of  college  rooms. 

As  to  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Gibson,  I  refer  the 
correspondent  to  Life  and  Collier^ s.  The  editors  of 
those  papers  may  consent  to  extol  the  merits  of 
the  work  of  that  student  of  straight-fronts,  drunken 
faces  and  advertising  schemes.  The  publishers' 
announcements,  however,  say  that  no  "den  is  com- 
plete without  one  of  Gibson's  drawings."  One  is 
enough,  this  implies.  Yet  here  I  inquire  whether  a 
college  room  is  to  be  called  a  den.  Recent  letters 
concerning  subscription  collectors  prompt  the  in- 
ference that  the  graduates,  at  least,  think  our  rooms 
dens  —  of  thieves. 

Summing  up  this  fragmentary  article,  I  may  reply 
to  the  question,  "What  makes  the  custom  of  which 
you  prate?"  Our  reputation  outside  makes  our 
custom  here.  I  know  of  two  witty  Juniors  who  told 
their  class-day  guests  that  they  stayed  up  all  the 
previous  night  decorating  and  altering  in  order  to 
meet  the  ladies'  requirements  for  a  college  room. 
There  is  more  truth  in  that  than  in  most  class-day 
small  talk.  For  as  the  fair  damsel  thinketh  in  her 
heart  we  are,  so  must  we  be. 


Today  I  know  full  well, 
Tomorrow  —  who  can  tell? 


R.  J.  Walsh,  '07. 


143 


DOLLARS 

The  lobby  of  the  great  hotel  was  deserted,  save 
for  a  group  of  four  men  in  one  corner.  Traveling 
salesmen  they  were,  all  of  them,  of  the  type  known 
as  drummers ;  and  they  were  whiling  away  the  hours 
toward  midnight  by  means  of  the  customary  prac- 
tice of  ''swapping  yarns."  Three  in  turn  had  told 
their  tales  and  had  been  applauded;  the  third  had 
just  finished  speaking,  and  now  all  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  fourth.  He  was  a  small  man,  dressed  in 
a  sober  suit  of  gray.  Of  him  it  seemed  that  no  great 
things  were  to  be  expected  in  the  story-telling  line. 
But  one  can  never  tell  about  these  little  men  who 
dress  in  gray  —  Napoleon  was  such  a  one,  and  so  is 
Tyrus  Cobb.  They  are  apt  to  be  heard  from  at  un- 
expected moments,  to  the  surprise  and  discomfiture 
of  us  tall  fellows  in  brown. 

For  a  few  moments  this  particular  gentleman  in 
gray  said  nothing;  he  merely  rubbed  his  right  ear 
in  a  thoughtful  manner.  Then  his  face  brightened, 
and  he  flicked  the  ash  from  the  end  of  his  cigar. 
Turning  to  the  company,  he  inquired,  "Do  any  of 
you  fellows  happen  to  know  the  value  of  a  Mexican 
dollar?" 

The  man  at  his  right  drew  a  notebook  from  his 
pocket  —  one  of  the  sort  in  which  you  can  ascertain 
anything,  from  the  weight  of  a  gallon  of  water  to  the 
diameter  of  the  moon  —  and  consulted  it.  "Forty- 
five  and  forty-nine  hundredths  cents,"  he  replied. 

"It  used  to  be,"  said  he  of  the  gray  suit  and  the 
diminutive  stature,  "but  nowadays,  with  these 
daily  revolutions  going  on  in  Mexico,  and  the  gen- 
eral scarcity  of  money  as  a  result,  no  man  on  earth 
can  say  what  it  is  likely  to  be  worth  in  a  given  place 
at  a  specified  time.  Now  a  friend  of  mine  had  a 
rather  queer  experience  with  that  very  thing  awhile 
ago,  and  if  you  fellows  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  tell 
it  to  you." 

144 


There  was  a  chorus  of  "Go  ahead!"  and  the 
narrator,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar  from  the  old  one, 
took  up  his  tale. 

"His  name  was  Alf  —  Alf  Jordan.  Anybody  here 
know  him?  No?  I  thought  maybe  some  of  you 
might.  He  was  in  the  soap  line.  Fine  fellow,  Alf. 
He  was  as  straight  as  a  die,  and  as  honest  as  the  day 
is  long.  If  he  had  any  fault,  it  was  that  he  w^as  a 
bit  too  fond  of  the  foamy  Budweiser,  but  outside 
of  that  he  was  all  right.  Well,  anyhow,  about  two 
years  ago  Alf  was  covering  a  route  down  in  Texas. 
Things  were  going  badly  —  what  with  all  the  fighting 
and  excitement  across  the  border,  nobody  had  any 
use  for  soap  —  and  one  day  Alf  blew  into  El  Paso 
with  just  one  solitary  American  dollar  to  his  name. 
He  was  hard  up  for  fair.  He  could  n't  sell  his  sam- 
ples, he  had  no  cash  and  as  far  as  he  could  see  he 
couldn't  pay  his  hotel  bill  unless  he  pawned  his 
socks. 

"Being  thoroughly  blue,  he  thought  he'd  have 
something  to  cheer  him  up,  so  he  hiked  for  the 
nearest  saloon  and  called  for  a  scuttle  of  suds.  The 
barkeep  shoved  the  drink  across  the  counter,  took 
in  Alf's  lonely  httle  dollar  and  handed  him  back  a 
Mexican  dollar  and  a  five-cent  piece. 

"'Hey!'  says  Alf,  'don't  I  get  any  more  change 
than  this?' 

"'Not  if  I  know  it  first,'  says  the  barkeep.  'An 
American  dollar  is  worth  a  Mexican  dollar  and 
ten  cents  over.  Ten  minus  five  leaves  five.  There's 
your  Mexican  dollar,  and  yonder 's  your  nickel. 
See?' 

"Well,  of  course,  Alf  w^as  considerable  peeved  at 
that,  but  he  could  n't  do  anything  about  it.  So  he 
finished  up  his  drink  and  went  out  feeling  bluer,  if 
possible,  than  he  did  when  he  came  in.  Have  any 
of  you  ever  been  to  El  Paso?  No?  Then  perhaps 
I'd  better  explain  the  lay  of  the  land.  You  see, 
the  town  is  built  right  on  the  banks  of  the  Rio 

145 


Gmnde,  and  on  the  other  side  is  Mexico.  There 's  a 
bridge  about  a  half  mile  long  that  leads  across,  and 
at  the  other  end  of  the  bridge  is  a  little  Mexican 
town  called  El  Paso  del  Norde,  or  something  like 
that  —  anyhow,  it's  'greaser'  for  'The  Path  to  the 
North.'  Well,  just  to  say  he'd  done  it,  Alf  started 
out  to  walk  the  bridge,  and  stand  on  foreign  soil. 
It  was  a  long  walk,  and  the  sun  beat  down  very 
hot,  and  when  he  got  to  the  other  side  he  was  warm 
and  tired  and  thirsty.  He  hunted  up  the  one  saloon 
in  the  place  and  ordered  a  drink.  Then,  instead  of 
paying  for  it  with  his  nickel,  he  handed  over  his 
Mexican  dollar,  probably  to  get  rid  of  it.  The 
man  behind  the  counter  gave  him  back  an  American 
dollar  and  another  nickel. 

'"Hey,  wait!'  says  Alf,  'you  made  a  mistake.' 
Alf  was  honest,  even  if  he  did  sell  soap. 

"'No,  senor,'  says  the  Mexican  barkeep,  'no 
mistake.  The  Mexican  dollar,  he  is  scarce  in  the 
country,  and  he  is  worth  the  American  dollar  and 
ten  cents  over.  I  take  out  for  the  drink.  Is  it  not 
all  right,  senor?' 

"Alf  stood  and  looked  at  him  for  about  ten 
seconds,  and  then  a  light  began  to  dawTi  on  him.  He 
let  out  a  w^hoop,  gulped  dowTi  his  drink  and  started 
back  across  the  bridge  at  a  two-forty  gait.  The 
barkeep  stood  and  looked  after  him,  and  then  made 
some  remarks  to  the  atmosphere  about  the  craziness 
of  gringos  in  general,  and  this  one  in  particular. 
Five  minutes  later  Alf  prances  up  to  the  bar  on  the 
American  side  looking  like  a  lunatic.  'Give  me  a 
drink!'  he  yells,  'and  give  me  the  change  in 
Mexican ! '    He  got  it. 

"Then  he  sat  down  and  drank  slowly,  so  as  to 
figure  out  where  he  was.  As  near  as  he  could  see, 
he  was  right  where  he  had  started  from,  and  he 
was  three  drinks  and  fifteen  cents  to  the  good. 
All  he  had  to  do  to  get  some  more  was  to  walk  the 
bridge  again.    It  looked  pretty  good  to  him. 

146 


'^Well,  gentlemen,  Alf  kept  that  up  until  he  got 
so  that  he  could  n't  see  the  cracks  in  the  bridge  when 
he  went  over  them,  and  he  was  walking  like  the  hor- 
rible example  in  a  temperance  lecture.  That  day 
he  earned  enough  to  pay  his  hotel  bill,  and  the  next 
day  he  went  at  it  again,  after  he  had  sobered  up. 
Altogether  he  must  have  walked  thirty  miles  a  day, 
at  ten  cents  a  mile,  and  as  much  as  he  wanted  to 
drink  thro\\Ti  in.  If  they  had  had  a  five-and-ten 
cent  store  in  the  town  he  would  have  cleaned  it  out, 
but  as  it  was,  he  took  to  buying  candy  by  the  nickel's 
worth  and  distributing  it  to  the  kids  in  the  street, 
until  he  had  a  crowd  of  followers  most  as  big  as  a 
circus-day  parade.  He  would  have  kept  it  up 
indefinitely,  but  about  four  days  later  a  lot  of  Mexi- 
can money  came  up  and  flooded  the  town,  and  the 
values  went  back  to  normal  again.  Then  Alf  left 
town. 

"When  he  got  to  thinking  about  it  later,  the  thing 
that  puzzled  him  was :  who  paid  for  all  those  drinks 
and  that  candy,  and  to  whom  did  all  that  extra  money 
belong?  The  saloon  keepers  did  n't  lose  anything, 
because  they  could  go  out  in  the  town  and  get  any- 
where the  same  values  for  their  money  that  they 
had  given  Alf.  Alf  himself  certainly  was  n't  out  of 
pocket,  because  when  he  quit  he  was  some  six 
dollars  better  off  than  when  he  started  in.  The  ques- 
tion is,  who  lost  on  the  deal? 

''Personally,  I  long  ago  gave  up  trying  to  figure 
it  out,  and  I  don't  think  anybody  else  can.  What? 
Twelve-thirty?  I  guess  it's  bed  for  mine.  By  the 
w^ay,  if  any  of  you  find  a  solution  for  that  thing, 
I  wdsh  you  would  tell  me  in  the  morning.  Good- 
night!" 

They  are  still  thinking  about  it. 

W.  L.  Prosser,  'i8. 


147 


THE  FOURTH  CASE 

"Heard  the  news?"  cried  Ken  Monroe,  throwing 
open  Harry  Dabney's  door.  ''They're  fumigating 
over  at  the  Lower  School." 

Dabney,  lying  on  the  window  seat,  turned  his 
head. 

"Who's  caught  it  now?"  he  asked. 

"A  new  kid  —  named  Dawson,  I  think.  And 
they  say  that  if  four  get  it,  St.  Timothy's  will  close 
and  everybody  be  sent  home  for  a  month." 

''Who  said?"  demanded  Dabney  incredulously. 

"Mr.  Garth  told  Clark  Harding  that's  what  the 
rector  has  decided.    And  this  new  kid 's  the  third." 

"Scarlet  fever's  mighty  contagious,"  Dabney  ob- 
served.    "There  ought  to  be  a  fourth." 

"Yes,  but  it  will  be  just  our  rotten  luck  to  have 
it  stop  with  only  three,"  Monroe  replied  gloomily. 
"Would  n't  it  be  great  to  have  a  month's  vacation 
now  —  get  away  from  this  beastly  March  weather 
and  the  exams  and  everything!" 

"Would  n't  it  though!"  said  Dabney. 

They  gazed  idly  out  of  the  window  at  the  storm  of 
snow  and  sleet;  they  were  a  congenial,  idle  pair. 

"  Is  the  new  kid's  case  a  bad  one?  "  asked  Dabney. 

"No;  light,  like  the  others.  They  say  Kelvin  and 
Harris  have  n't  really  been  sick  at  all;  just  shut  up 
in  the  Infirmary." 

"If  there  were  only  a  way  of  getting  somebody 
to  sacrifice  himself  and  make  a  fourth!"  sighed 
Dabney.     "Some  useless  new  kid." 

He  glanced  round  his  room  wearily.  It  was  the 
most  luxurious  room  in  St.  Timothy's,  but  to  Dab- 
ney now  it  seemed  cramped  and  tiresome.  It  had 
always  pleased  him  to  think  himself  and  to  be 
thought  precociously  aesthetic.  Hence  the  swing- 
ing bronze  censers  of  mediaeval  design  and  work- 
manship, hence  the  old  silver  and  brass  candlesticks, 

148 


and  the  Persian  rug,  ver>^  thin  and  decrepit,  that 
was  tacked  on  the  wall.  Hence  also  the  quills  which 
rested  on  the  silver  inkstand  and  which  Dabney 
sharpened  with  his  penknife,  sapng  that  he  hated 
pens.  His  reputation  as  a  humorist  saved  him  from 
derision;  the  boys  admitted  that  Dabney's  affecta- 
tions amused  no  one  more  than  himself.  He  was 
good-natured  and  popular  and  quite  lazy  and  selfish. 

The  weather  depressed  him;  the  fact  that  he  had 
that  morning  been  caught  in  promoting  disorder  in 
class  contributed  to  his  dejection.  The  master  had 
turned  a  suspicious  eye  just  as  he  was  slipping  a 
pinch  of  snow  down  the  neck  of  the  boy  in  front  of 
him.  And  now  Dabney  was  condemned  to  spend  an 
hour  of  the  afternoon  recess  in  expiation. 

The  bell  rang,  summoning  him  and  other  male- 
factors and  delinquents  to  their  task.  On  his  way 
he  passed  the  Infirmary  and  glanced  up  at  the 
scarlet  fever  wing.  In  his  glance  there  was  no  com- 
passion for  the  inmates.  "I  wish  there  were  four  of 
you/'  he  muttered. 

The  next  hour  he  spent  in  the  schoolroom  writ- 
ing out  the  line  ''Timeo  Danuos  et  dona  ferenies'' 
some  three  hundred  tunes.  In  the  mechanical 
monotony  of  the  task,  an  idea  floated  into  his  mind; 
and  when  the  hour  was  up  he  went  in  search  of  Ken 
Monroe. 

That  evening  he  called  on  Mr.  Garth,  who  had 
charge  of  the  dormitory. 

''Oh,  Mr.  Garth,"  he  said,  ''I  wanted  to  ask  you; 
it's  awfully  dull  this  time  of  year,  you  know;  it's 
not  so  bad  for  us  Sixth  Formers,  because  we  have 
rooms  and  can  live  in  a  more  or  less  civilized  way. 
But  for  the  little  kids  in  alcoves  it's  aw^ul." 

"Oh,  it  is?"  said  Mr.  Garth,  who  was  disposed 
to  be  satirical  and  suspicious.  "WTiat's  up?  Get- 
ting altruistic  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"No,  sir,"  Dabney  repUed  respectfully.  "But 
I  was  just  thinking  "that  here  we  fellows  have  all 

149 


tlie  privileges  and  the  little  kids  don't  have  any. 
And  I  was  going  to  ask  if  I  could  n't  invite  six  or 
eight  of  them  up  to  my  room  tomorrow  and  give 
them  a  blow-out  —  beg  pardon,  sir,  I  mean  some 
crackers  and  jam.  Ken  Monroe  and  I  will  see  they 
don't  get  into  mischief." 

"Ti?neo  Dahneyos  et  dojta  ferentes,^^  said  the 
master. 

Dabney  laughed  with  such  appreciation  of  this 
witticism  that  Garth  relented. 

"I'll  put  you  on  your  honor,"  he  said.  "No 
noise,  no  disturbance.  I'll  try  to  believe  that  for 
once  you  want  to  do  a  kind  and  virtuous  act." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Dabney.  "And  may  I  go  down 
to  the  cook  and  get  some  beans?  " 

"Beans?    What  do  you  want  with  beans?" 

"To  play  games  with,  sir.  Little  kids  always 
like  to  play  games." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Garth  condescendingly;  "go 
and  get  your  beans." 

Dabney  bowed  himself  out,  murmuring  his  grati- 
tude. Ken  Monroe  was  waiting  for  him  on  the 
stairs,  and  Dabney,  going  passt,  clutched  his  arm 
convulsively.  Then  they  clattered  down  together. 
Dabney  received  from  the  cook  a  handful  of  white 
beans  and  carried  them  up  to  his  room.  One  of 
these  he  smeared  with  ink;  then  he  put  it  and  seven 
others  into  a  box. 

He  and  Monroe  made  out  a  list  of  eight  little 
boys  worthy  to  be  bidden  to  the  feast.  They  were 
none  of  them  more  than  thirteen  years  old,  and  they 
were  chosen  with  regard  to  their  appearance  of 
docility  and  obedience. 

The  next  afternoon  Monroe  collected  his  guests 
and  led  them,  chattering  shrilly,  up  the  stairs. 
Although  he  knew  what  to  expect,  he  could  not 
help  being  a  little  startled  when  Dabney  opened  the 
door.  The  room  was  darkened;  heavy  curtains  had 
been  drawn  over  the  windows,  and  the  only  light 

150 


came  from  the  censers  and  candles,  and  was  dim 
and  yellow.  Strange,  oriental  odors  pervaded  the 
air  with  a  heavy  sweetness.  The  chatter  of  the  little 
boys  was  hushed. 

"Come  in,"  said  Dabney  hospitably.  "I  can't 
have  much  light  on  account  of  my  eyes.  You'll 
get  used  to  it  in  a  moment.  I  thought  it  would  be 
good  to  have  something  to  eat,  after  the  awful 
messes  they  give  us  at  meals.  I've  got  chocolate 
brewing  here  and  potted  chicken  and  strawberry 
jam  and  crackers." 

''Oh!"  breathed  Freddy  Robinson  in  long  accents 
of  delight. 

''I  love  strawberry  Jam,"  stated  Lucius  Quinby. 

''Potted  chicken's  great,"  Val  Adams  announced. 

"Oh,  saltines!"  cried  Freddy  Robinson  raptur- 
ously, as  Dabney  drew  out  a  large  tin  box  of  crackers 
from  under  the  window  seat. 

Then  all  the  little  boys  began  to  talk  at  once. 
They  struggled  clamorously  round  the  cracker- 
box;  then,  retiring  with  their  broken  spoils,  they 
clustered  about  the  jar  of  jam  and  urged  one  an- 
other to  hurry  up  with  the  single  knife.  All  except 
Val  Adams,  who  had  spoken  up  in  praise  of  potted 
chicken;  he  was  permitted  to  retire  with  his  luxury 
into  a  corner  and  there  to  gorge.  Meanwhile,  Ken 
Monroe  and  Harry  Dabney  were  mixing  the  choco- 
late in  cups  for  their  guests;  the  water  for  it  was 
boiling  on  the  little  gas  stove. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  eaten  any  lunch,"  complained 
Phil  Densmore. 

"Oh,  my,  but  you're  piggy!"  exclaimed  Lucius 
Quinby.    "You've  got  more  jam  than  cracker." 

"That's  the  way  to  eat  it,"  Dabney  assured  them 
genially.    "Now,  who's  ready  for  chocolate?" 

"Me!"  "I  spoke  first!"  "Oh,  come  off,  you 
didn't!"  "Yes,  like  a  hen!"  This  last  expres- 
sion was  from  Bob  Eaton.  The  little  boys  were 
evidently  begining  to  feel  at  home. 

151 


''Quietly  now,"  said  Dabney.  ''I  told  Mr.  Garth 
you'd  be  quiet.  Besides,  in  a  Sixth  Form  room 
you  've  got  to  show  manners.  Now  then,  you  — 
let's  see,  what's  your  name?" 

"Eaton." 

*'Well,  you're  first;  here  you  are.  Carver,  here's 
yours.  There's  the  condensed  milk  on  the  table 
if  you  want  it  sweeter." 

When  they  had  all  eaten  and  drunk,  Dabney 
adroitly  led  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of 
scarlet  fever. 

"Did  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  if  there's  one 
more  case,  we'll  all  be  sent  home  for  a  month?" 

No,  the  little  boys  had  not  heard  this;  they  showed 
the  most  eager  interest. 

"Yes,"  said  Dabney.  "And  we'll  escape  the 
exams  and  we  won't  come  back  till  spring  has  begun, 
and  all  the  sports  outdoors  —  rowing,  and  tennis, 
and  baseball,  and  swimming.  Would  n't  it  be 
great?" 

"I  wonder  if  there  will  be  another  case?"  said 
Freddy  Robinson  hopefully. 

"They're  all  such  light  cases,"  put  in  Ken  Mon- 
roe. "Kelvin  and  Harris  haven't  been  in  bed  at 
all." 

"They're  awfully  lucky  really  to  have  it,"  ob- 
served Dabney.  "Because  it  is  this  light  kind  of 
scarlet  fever,  and  it  makes  them  immune  —  so  that 
they'll  never  be  in  danger  of  having  the  harder 
kind." 

"Yes,  really,  when  you  come  to  look  at  it  that 
way,  anybody  that  can  get  it  now  is  in  luck,"  said 
Ken  Monroe. 

"Would  n't  you  all  like  to  get  a  month's  vacation 
now?"  asked  Dabney  persuasively. 

"Would  we!"  "Oh  my!"  the  little  boys  an- 
swered. 

"It  would  be  a  good  chance  for  somebody  to  be 
a  hero  and  get  the  fourth  case,"  Dabney  remarked. 

152 


''Everybody  would  treat  him  like  a  hero  afterwards, 
and  yet  it  would  n't  really  be  so  heroic,  because  he'd 
be  having  a  vacation  himself,  with  such  a  light  case, 
and  novels  and  things  to  amuse  him;  and  besides, 
he'd  be  making  himself  immune  forever.  It  would 
be  just  about  like  getting  vaccinated  so  as  not  to 
have  smallpox." 

"It  wouldn't  be  much  worse  than  that,"  said 
Monroe. 

''If  it  was  n't  for  being  a  Sixth  Former  and  hav- 
ing to  study  hard  all  the  time  for  my  college  exams, 
I  believe  I'd  volunteer  myself,"  Dabney  continued. 
"It  would  be  easy  enough  to  get  exposed.  Do  you 
know  what  I'd  do?  There's  a  ladder  kept  in  the 
shed  back  of  the  study;  I'd  get  that  out  some  night 
and  take  it  up  to  the  Infirmary.  It's  a  light  little 
ladder,  you  know,  but  it's  long  enough,  for  Kelvin 
and  Harris  are  in  the  wing  this  way,  and  you  know 
how  near  the  ground  the  windows  are.  And  it 
would  be  easy  to  climb  up  and  open  the  window 
and  stick  your  head  into  the  room  for  a  few  minutes; 
that  would  be  enough." 

"But  if  one  of  the  masters  should  see  you?"  sug- 
gested Val  Adams. 

"Oh,  it's  taking  the  chance  of  that  that  would 
make  it  such  sport,"  replied  Dabney.  "Of  course 
the  best  way  to  do  would  be  to  steal  out  of  dormi- 
tory after  everybody  else  is  asleep.  It  would  really 
be  great  sport  —  and  the  fellow  that  did  it  —  well, 
he  would  make  a  name  for  himself.  Would  n't  he, 
Ken?" 

"I  should  think  he  would,"  answered  Monroe. 

"Why  don't  you  do  it,  Eaton?"  suggested  Val 
Adams. 

"Yes,  and  get  you  a  month's  vacation?"  retorted 
Eaton.  He  reverted  to  his  impolite  expression,  "I 
will,  like  a  hen." 

"Joe  Car\xr  would  like  to  do  it,"  Freddy  Robin- 
son announced. 

153 


"Ah,  my  neck!"  said  Joe  Carver  in  emphatic 
denial.     "Scarlet  fever's  no  fun." 

"Oh,  but  this  kind  is!"  asserted  Dabney.  "You 
see,  it's  the  very  light  kind,  and  you  have  novels 
read  to  you,  and  you  play  games  and  get  excused 
from  studies  and  exams,  and  have  lemon  jelly  and 
ice  cream  and  oranges;  why,  it's  great.  And  when 
it  would  mean  so  much  to  the  whole  school  to  have 
a  fourth  case  —  why,  I  should  think  somebody 
would  be  glad  to  do  it." 

He  waited,  but  there  was  a  not  very  encourag- 
ing silence. 

"You  see,  all  of  us  older  fellows  have  done  some- 
thing for  the  school  at  one  time  or  another,"  Dabney 
resumed,  growing  more  impressive.  "It's  the  duty 
of  every  one  who  comes  to  St.  Timothy's  to  do 
something  for  the  school.  Now  here's  a  chance  for 
one  of  you  younger  boys  to  distinguish  himself. 
It  would  almost  certainly  make  him  the  most 
popular  fellow  in  school.  It  would  be  something 
that  nobody  would  ever  forget.  Now  here  you  are, 
eight  of  you,  with  this  chance  open.  I'll  tell  you 
what;  let's  draw  lots  and  see  who  gets  it.  What  do 
you  say,  Quinby?" 

He  had  cunningly  picked  out  the  most  reckless 
of  the  httle  boys,  and  by  offering  him  leadership  in 
the  matter  he  practically  pledged  him  to  the  scheme. 

"Oh,  I'd  just  as  soon,"  said  Quinby. 

"Is  there  anybody  that's  afraid?"  asked  Dabney. 
"Robinson,  are  you  afraid?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  quivered  Freddy  Robinson. 

Dabney  put  the  question  impressively  to  each 
one  in  turn;  they  all  said,  whispering,  that  they 
were  not  afraid;  but  they  had  suddenly  become 
quite  wretched  in  their  minds.  Now  the  solemn 
gloom  of  the  room,  the  weighty  significance  of 
candles  and  censers  burning  with  their  yellow  light, 
the  subtle  heavy  odor  of  Dabney's  perfumes,  were 
beginning  to  produce  their  effect;  the  little  boys 

154 


were  becoming  cowed  and  oppressed  with  the  sense 
that  a  binding  ceremony  was  about  to  be  performed. 
The  lively  chatter  of  a  short  time  before  had  been 
stilled;  only  Dabney's  solemn  voice  and  the  low 
responses  of  his  victims  broke  the  silence.  Val 
Adams,  to  keep  up  his  courage,  took  another  cracker 
and  began  crunching  it. 

"Now,"  said  Dabney,  and  his  voice  was  posi- 
tively sepulchral,  "there  must  be  no  misunder- 
standing. To  the 'words  which  I  am  about  to  pro- 
nounce, each  of  you  in  turn  must  reply,  'I  will.' 
Now  listen  and  be  prepared  to  answer.  In  case  you 
are  chosen  by  lot,  will  you  within  twenty-four  hours 
secure  access  to  the  scarlet  fever  wing  of  the  In- 
firmary and  there  expose  yourself?    Quinby?" 

"I  will,"  murmured  Quinby. 

"Robinson?" 

Freddy  Robinson  nodded  and  gulped  and  then 
said,  "I  will" 

Two  or  three  began  to  murmur  among  themselves. 

"Silence!"  said  Dabney  sternly,  fearful  lest  they 
should  hatch  out  opposition.  The  whispering 
ceased,  and  the  others  in  turn  all  answered,  "I 
will." 

Dabney  opened  a  drawer  of  his  bureau  with  great 
deliberation  and  took  out  a  small  box. 

"I  have  here,"  he  said  slowly,  "eight  beans. 
Seven  of  them  are  white  and  one  is  black.  I  will 
put  them  into  this  hat  and  then  pass  the  hat,  be- 
ginning with  Robinson  and  ending  with  Eaton. 
Each  of  you  will  take  one  bean.  Whoever  draws 
the  black  bean  will  perform  the  task  according  to 
his  oath." 

He  had  got  only  half  way  round  with  the  hat 
when  there  was  a  hysterical  little  cry  and  laugh 
from  Freddy  Robinson. 

"I  —  I  got  it ! "  he  said.  He  was  holding  up  some- 
thing between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

Dabney  pulled  the  curtains  and  let  in  the  light. 

155 


There  was  no  mistake;  Freddy  Robinson  had  drawn 
the  black  bean. 

"Good  work;  congratulations!"  said  Dabney, 
grasping  his  hand.  "Now  youVe  got  your  chance, 
Robinson." 

"Yes,"  said  Freddy  Robinson,  trying  to  speak 
bravely.  "Yes."  But  his  face  was  white,  and  for 
a  moment  his  lip  quivered. 

When  the  little  boys  had  departed,  Dabney  ex- 
tinguished his  candles  and  censers  and  opened  the 
windows  to  air  his  room. 

"Do  you  suppose  he  '11  really  do  it?"  asked 
Monroe. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  Dabney.  Now  that  the  fun 
was  over  it  seemed  a  little  tame.  "Look  at  this!" 
—  he  kicked  the  empty  cracker-box  —  "the  little 
brats  have  eaten  me  out  of  house  and  home.  And 
I  waiting  on  them  all  the  time,  and  not  having  a 
chance  to  take  a  bite!    My,  but  I'm  hungry!" 

"So  am  I,"  said  Monroe. 

"If  I  only  had  a  chocolate  eclair!"  said  Dabney. 
"Don't  you  love  chocolate  eclairs?  It  seems  years 
since  I've  eaten  one.  Look  here."  He  drew  out 
his  watch.  "I'd  almost  forgotten  this  is  a  half 
holiday;  we  have  two  hours  yet.  Time  enough  to 
go  into  town." 

"If  we  can  get  permission,"  said  Monroe  doubt- 
fully. 

The  rector  was  in  a  compliant  mood.  "Yes,  you 
may  go,"  he  said  to  them.  "Under  the  usual  rules, 
of  course." 

This  meant  that  they  were  not  to  visit  any  candy 
or  cook-shop. 

"Under  the  usual  rules!"  exclaimed  Dabney 
satirically  when  they  had  started.  "He  must  think 
I  go  to  town  for  my  health!" 

The  storm  of  the  day  before  had  ceased,  and  the 
hard  dry  crust  of  snow  crunched  pleasantly  under 
foot.    The  boys  trudged  along  the  road,  now  and 

156 


then  stepping  aside  to  let  a  sleigh  skim  by;  Mr. 
Garth,  driving  a  speedy  mare,  was  among  those  who 
passed. 

''Garth  must  be  out  to  see  his  best  girl,"  was 
Dabney's  irreverent  comment. 

The  confectioner's  shop  which  tempted  St. 
Timothy's  boys  to  many  transgressions  lay  at  the 
corner  of  the  main  avenue  of  the  town  and  the  road 
leading  out  to  the  school.  Dabney  and  Monroe 
glanced  up  and  down,  and  ha\'ing  assured  them- 
selves that  no  master  was  near,  stepped  inside. 

While  the  shopkeeper  was  tying  up  the  box  of 
eclairs,  a  cutter  drew  up  in  front  of  the  store;  the 
driver  handed  the  reins  to  his  companion,  a  pretty 
girl  in  furs,  and  alighted. 

"It's  Garth!"  said  Dabney,  deeply  shocked. 

There  was  no  possible  escape,  and  as  the  master 
entered,  the  two  boys  touched  their  hats  pohtely. 

"Replenishing  your  larder,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr. 
Garth,  producing  the  little  red  book  in  which  he  set 
down  the  misdemeanors  of  St.  Timothy's  boys. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Dabney  replied.  "I've  been  buying 
some  chocolate  eclairs." 

''Very  feminine  food,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Garth. 

*'You  will  find  plenty  of  them  left,  sir,"  returned 
Dabney;  and  again  touching  his  hat,  he  went  out. 
"I  suppose  I'll  get  it  for  impertinence,  too,"  he 
said  to  Monroe.     "Well,  I  don't  care." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Monroe,  "w^hy  a  pretty  girl 
like  that  will  go  dri\'ing  with  such  a  brute." 

They  took  their  way,  somewhat  despondently, 
back  to  St.  Timothy's.  When  they  reached  the 
school  it  was  supper  time. 

"Come  up  to  my  room  after  supper,"  said  Dab- 
ney. "I'm  not  going  to  eat  my  dessert  —  and 
you'd  better  not  either.  Leave  plenty  of  space  for 
eclairs." 

The  dessert  that  evening  was  stewed  cherries  and 
gingerbread,  a  combination  of  which  Dabney  was 

157 


sincerely  fond,  but  he  abstained.  Prayers  were 
held  in  the  hall  immediately  after  supper,  and  then 
the  younger  boys  went  to  the  study,  the  older  ones 
to  their  rooms. 

"We'll  have  time  enough  to  eat  just  one  Eclair 
together,"  Dabney  whispered  to  Monroe.  ''Then 
you  can  take  half  of  them,  and  I'll  keep  the  rest." 

They  rushed  up  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time. 
Dabney  pulled  the  box  out  from  under  his  bed,  cut 
the  strings,  and  raised  the  lid;  there,  nested  together 
upon  soft  tissue  paper,  were  row  upon  row  of  fat, 
luscious-looking  brown  eclairs. 

Monroe  took  out  one,  Dabney  another.  Then, 
ceremoniously  raising  them  aloft,  they  saluted  each 
other.  ''Prosit ! "  said  Dabney,  who  had  been  abroad. 

Monroe  was  by  a  fraction  the  first  to  bite;  then, 
with  his  mouth  full,  and  the  oozing  fragment  in 
his  hand,  he  uttered  a  bitter  cry.  His  jaws  worked 
rapidly  and  repugnantly  upon  the  morsel  while  he 
made  his  way  across  the  room  and  dropped  the 
large,  creamy,  oozing  eclair  in  the  slop-jar. 

"Sour!"  he  lamented.     "Sour!"^ 

Dabney  ruminated  over  his  specimen. 

"No,"  he  pronounced  at  last;  "not  sour.  But 
the  cream  is  just  on  the  turn;  they  would  n't  keep 
long,  certainly." 

"They  can  keep  forever,  for  all  me,"  declared 
Monroe. 

But  the  sight  of  Dabney  continuing  to  eat  en- 
couraged him.  "Let  me  have  a  taste  of  yours?"  he 
asked,  and  Dabney  offered  him  the  other  end. 
"It's  just  as  bad,"  Monroe  said  dolefully. 

"It's  not  altogether  good,"  admitted  Dabney, 
"but  I  try  to  think  about  the  chocolate  and  not 
about  the  cream.    And  I  love  chocolate." 

Monroe  looked  on  aggrieved.  "What  a  roast!" 
he  complained.  "Snagged  getting  them,  and  then 
to  have  them  turn  out  sour ! " 

"You'd  better  be  going   to  your  room,"   said 

158 


Dabney.  "Garth  will  be  prowling  round  here  in  a 
moment.     Do  you  want  some  of  the  things?" 

''No,  thank  you,"  Monroe  answered.  ''Have 
another  party  for  the  little  kids  tomorrow  and 
give  'em  my  share." 

When  a  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Garth  knocked 
and  looked  in,  he  found  Dabney  sitting  alone,  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  study  of  his  Virgil.  Satis- 
fied with  what  he  saw,  the  master  continued  on  his 
rounds.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  within  the  familiar 
covers  of  the  ''^Eneid"  was  a  paper-backed  novel 
entitled,  "Murder  Will  Out!"  to  which  Dabney 
was  giving  his  rapt  attention.  And  once  m.ore  left 
in  solitude,  he  drew  out  his  box  of  eclairs  and  placed 
it  on  the  table  within  reach. 

There  was  much  determination  of  an  ill-directed 
kind  in  the  youth  Dabney.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  eat  all  the  eclairs  for  which  he  had  risked 
and  sacrificed  so  much;  and  since  they  were  already, 
as  he  expressed  it,  "on  the  turn,"  the  task  must  be 
accomplished  that  night.  He  had  devoured  one, 
Monroe  had  thrown  one  away;  there  remained  ten. 

Had  they  been  in  prime  condition,  this  would 
have  been  for  Dabney  no  difficult  gastronomic 
feat.  As  it  was,  he  hoped,  with  the  aid  of  a 
thrilling  novel  and  a  palate  singularly  sensitive  to 
the  charms  of  chocolate,  to  forget  the  treachery  of 
cream. 

Up  to  the  SLxth  eclair  he  succeeded  pretty  well. 
From  that  time  on  his  way  was  laborious.  He  felt 
cloyed  and  oppressed;  the  chocolate  was  tasteless 
in  his  mouth,  and  the  character  of  the  cream  grew 
more  and  more  assertive.  After  the  eighth  eclair 
he  would  have  given  up  had  it  not  been  for  a  dogged 
sense  that  he  ow^ed  it  to  his  character  not  to  stop, 
and  also  for  a  wish  to  have  triumphant  and  amazing 
news  the  next  morning  for  Ken  Monroe.  Just 
before  eleven  o'clock,  when  all  lights  had  to  be  ex- 
tinguished, he  finished  the  last  eclair. 

159 


He  did  not  know  what  time  of  niojht  it  was  when 
he  awoke,  feeling  very,  very  sick.  The  room  seemed 
to  be  whirling  round  and  round,  and  also  to  have 
the  rocking  motion  of  a  boat.  He  rose  and  reeled 
to  the  window-seat;  there,  lying  down,  he  put  his 
head  out  into  the  cool  air. 

"I  suppose  I'm  not  so  awfully  sick,  but  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  about  dying,"  he  groaned  to  himself. 

Then  he  saw  a  figure  moving  slowly  across  the 
wide  white  expanse  of  snow  that  stretched  from  the 
study  building  to  the  Infirmary.  In  the  moonlight 
it  gradually  revealed  itself  as  a  boy  dragging  a 
ladder. 

Sick  and  inert  as  he  was,  Dabney  gazed  now  with 
an  awakening  comprehension.  Yes,  the  boy  was 
moving  toward  the  scarlet  fever  wing;  it  was 
Freddy  Robinson. 

At  sight  of  the  child  actually  preparing  to  ex- 
pose himself,  Dabney  knew  that  he  had  never 
really  anticipated  or  desired  this.  He  had  talked 
nonsense  about  the  ''light  kind"  of  scarlet  fever; 
and  here  was  this  boy  going  maybe  to  catch  his 
death.  And  if  a  fellow  felt  so  dreadfully  ill  as  he 
himself  did,  from  mere  indigestion,  what  pangs  a 
sufferer  from  a  real  sickness,  however  light,  must 
endure!  A  sudden  remorseful  and  unselfish  im- 
pulse stirred  in  Dabney's  bosom,  and  he  drew  his 
breath  to  shout  to  Freddy  Robinson  in  warning. 

But  then  he  realized  that  to  shout  would  rouse 
the  masters  and  bring  down  punishment  on  the 
boy's  head.  With  another  unselfish  perception,  he 
saw  that  he  must  use  more  quiet  means.  In  his 
slippers  and  bathrobe,  just  as  he  was,  he  stole  up 
the  corridor;  an  intolerable  giddiness  assailed  him, 
but  he  kept  on  softly  past  Mr.  Garth's  room  and 
then  down  the  stairs.  He  slid  back  the  heavy  bolt 
in  the  outer  door;  the  cold  air  of  the  March  night 
curled  round  his  bare  ankles  and  streamed  up  under 
his  robe,  and  he  had  an  instant  foreboding  of  the 

1 60 


probably  fatal  complications  that  would  be  intro- 
duced into  his  malady.  But  he  ran  bravely,  weakly 
along  the  icy  path  to  intercept  Robinson,  who  was 
now  in  the  shadow  of  the  Infirmary. 

''Robinson!"  he  cried  in  a  low  voice;  and  the 
boy,  turning  with  a  start,  dropped  the  ladder  in  the 
snow. 

"Come  here,"  said  Dabney;  and  Freddy  Robin- 
son crept  near,  afraid  and  trembling.  Dabney's 
words  came  jerkily;  his  teeth  chattered.  "It  was 
only  a  joke;  you  were  n't  really  to  do  it.  Go  back  to 
bed  —  don't  get  snagged." 

Dabney  himself  returned  to  the  building,  stole 
safely  past  the  room  of  the  sleeping  Garth,  and 
getting  into  bed  had  a  violent  chill.  After  this  he 
fell  into  a  peaceful  slumber,  from  which  he  awoke 
the  next  morning  quite  fresh  and  weU.  Freddy 
Robinson  was  less  fortunate;  the  master  at  the 
Lower  School  happened  to  be  awake  and  heard 
soft  footsteps  at  half  past  one  o'clock;  he  rose,  and 
Robinson  was  "snagged." 

When  Dabney  heard  this,  he  went  to  the  rector 
and  made  a  clean  breast  of  the  affair.  "The  little 
kid  ought  n't  to  be  punished,"  he  said.  "I  put  him 
up  to  it.  Mr.  Garth  's  arranged  to  keep  me  busy 
with  Latin  lines  all  this  afternoon;  and  tomorrow 
afternoon,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  do  Robinson's 
lines." 

"I'll  excuse  Robinson's  lines,"  said  the  rector. 

"Oh,  sir,  you  are  almost  too  good,"  Dabney  pro- 
tested effusively. 

Monroe  saw  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  rector's 
study.  "W^at  are  you  throwing  out  your  chest 
about?"  Monroe  asked. 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  throwing  out  my  chest," 
said  Dabney  with  humility.  "I  don't  take  any 
credit  to  myself.  It  was  only  what  any  honorable 
person  would  have  done.  It  was  n't  anything 
special." 

i6i 


''What  are  you  talking  about,  you  nut?"  asked 
Monroe.     ''What  happened?" 

But  Dabney  would  not  answer.  "Oh,  Ken," 
he  cried,  casting  upward  a  pious  glance,  "if  I 
could  only  bring  you  to  realize  the  happiness  of 
being  good!" 

A.  S.  Pier,  '95. 


162 


PART  III 


ADVENTURE 

Toward  fame  and  honor,  love  and  TRUTH 

Our  earliest  course  was  run, 
Predestin'd  paths  John  Harvard  points 

To  every  Harvard  son." 

W.  G.  Peckham,  '67,  Advocate. 


PIECES  OF  THE  GAME 

We  are  but  actors,  Lord,  we  know, 
Who  strut  an  hour  and  bow  away; 

The  world  cares  only  for  the  show, 
And  not  if  we  be  grave  or  gay. 

We  play  at  peasants  and  at  kings, 
At  jesters,  too,  with  lesser  art; 

But  whether  peasants,  jesters,  kings, 
The  act  must  close,  and  we  depart. 

If  ermine,  then,  we  wear,  and  gold  — 
Or  smock  of  humblest  citizen  — 

Or  but  the  fool's  poor  wand  we  hold. 
Grant,  Lord,  we  play  the  part  as  men. 
P.  A.  Hutchinson,  '98. 


QUATRAIN 

It  is  so  wide,  this  rolling,  trackless  sea. 

The  sun  may  sink  ere  any  port  we  make  — 

But  we  have  felt  the  good  ship  riding  free, 
And  seen  the  dawn  o'er  purple  islands  break. 

P.  A.  Hutchinson,  '98. 


FROM  THE  CLASS  POEM 

There  's  trampling  of  hoofs  in  the  busy  street. 
There 's  clanking  of  sabers  on  floor  and  stair, 
There's  sound  of  restless,  hurr>^ing  feet. 
Of  voices  that  whisper,  of  lips  that  entreat  — 
Will  they  live,  will  they  die,  will  they  strive,  will 
they  dare?  — 
The  houses  are  garlanded,  flags  flutter  gay, 
For  a  troop  of  the  Guard  rides  forth  today. 

16s 


Oh,  the  troopers  will  ride  and  their  hearts  will  leap, 
When  it 's  shoulder  to  shoulder  and   friend   to 
friend  — 
But  it's  some  to  the  pinnacle,  some  to  the  deep, 
And  some  in  the  glow  of  their  strength  to  sleep, 

And  for  all  it 's  a  fight  to  the  tale's  far  end. 
And  it's  each  to  his  goal,  nor  turn  nor  sway, 
When  the  troop  of  the  Guard  rides  forth  today. 

The  da^^^l  is  upon  us,  the  pale  light  speeds 

To  the  zenith  with  glamor  and  golden  dart. 
On,  up!     Boot  and  saddle!     Give  spurs  to  your 

steeds! 
There 's  a  city  beleaguered  that  cries  for  men's  deeds, 
With  the  pain  of  the  world  in  its  cavernous  heart. 
Ours  be  the  triumph!    Humanity  calls! 

Life's  not  a  dream  in  the  clover! 
On  to  the  w^alls,  on  to  the  w^alls. 
On  to  the  w^alls,  and  over! 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07. 


MORNING 

The  wondrous  fields  lie  open  to  the  dawn 

Awake,  Awake! 
The  bending  hills  throw  off  their  cloaks, 
The  low  winds  rustle  in  the  oaks 
And  kiss  to  life  the  silent  lake. 

Awake,  Awake! 
God  and  the  day  are  at  your  door  — 

Awake ! 

The  first  light  trembles  to  its  dawn  — 

Awake,  Awake! 
The  first  song  quivers  in  the  leaves, 
The  first  call  echoes  from  the  eaves, 

166 


The  first  wing  dips  into  the  lake, 

Awake,  Awake! 
The  low  waves  call  you  from  the  shore  — 

Awake ! 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07. 


DRYAD   KING 

I  HAVE  caught  them  in  the  twilight 

Of  the  dawn  and  opening  day, 
I  have  kissed  away  the  darkness, 

I  have  kissed  my  care  away; 
I  have  lured  them  from  their  shadows, 

I  have  lulled  them  at  my  side, 
Heard  the  chants  of  dryad  magic, 

Felt  the  touch  that  deified. 


Oh,  the  forest  boughs  were  swaying. 

And  the  forest  depths  were  still, 
As  they  crept  up  soft  and  kissed  me  — 

Kissed  me  as  a  sweetheart  will. 
Oh,  the  swaying  boughs  were  golden, 

Forest  carpet  was  a  throne, 
As  they  danced  about  and  crowned  me, 

Sang  their  mystic  monotone. 

Ruler  of  a  dryad  kingdom^ 
Of  a  strange,  eternal  band  — 

Peer  am  I  among  immortals, 
Gods,  reach  out  the  brother  hand! 

Yea,  the  gods  have  heard  and  answered, 
But  their  brother  gift  is  woe  — 

They  have  sent  a  face  that  vanished. 
Sent  a  voice  that  whispered  low : 
167 


"Leave  your  dryad-realm  and  find  me, 
Loving  mortal,  take  thou  me." 

And  I  seek  the  wide  woods  over 
One  strange  face  I  may  not  see. 

And  the  forest  knows  no  singing. 
Knows  no  dryad's  joyous  tread  — 

For  the  magic  realm  hath  crumbled 
As  a  tale  when  all  is  said. 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07. 


WHEN  THE  SHADOW  FALLS 

When  the  star  breaks  in  the  melting  sky. 
And  the  last  dawn  glows  on  a  shattered  world, 
To  some  new  garden,  peace-unfurled, 

Our  never-ending  souls  shall  fly. 

Because  we  loved,  and  loving  knew 
A  greater  strength,  a  greater  hope, 
Than  lies  within  man's  mortal  scope 

And  fear-bound,  death-encircled  view, 

We  two  shall  find  immortal  days  — 
Not  in  the  gray  ethereal  heights. 
But  in  a  world  where  old  delights 

Shall  wait  on  unforgotten  ways. 

Let  scholars  speak  of  death  that  blends 
Men  into  one  enmantling  soul  — 
For  you  and  me  the  final  goal 

Must  re-create  the  life  it  ends. 

In  some  far  island  we  shall  learn 
The  mysteries  and  runes  of  earth  — 
Until  beyond  another  birth, 
Homeward,  as  one  soul  we  return. 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07. 
168 


TO  TORQUATUS 

(A  Translatioji  of  Ode  7,  Book  LV,  of  Horace) 
Winner  of  the  Sargent  Prize 


The  snows  have  fled;  and  leaves  and  grasses  now 

Return  to  trees 
And  meadows ;  earth  is  changing  for  the  plow, 

And  streams  decrease 
And  flow  beneath  their  bands;  and  nightly  where 

None  look  askance, 
With  naked  nymphs  the  sister  Graces  dare 

Lead  forth  their  choral  dance. 

n 

But  reckon  not  on  immortality  — 

So  warns  the  year. 
And  this  brief  hour  which  snatches  greedily 

The  day  so  dear: 
The  frosts  are  now  dispersed  by  zephyrs  —  aye, 

But  summer  fain 
Would  trample  spring;  and  autumn  soon  is  nigh 

To  pour  the  grain 
And  fruitage  from  her  horn,  and  by  and  by 

Dull  winter  comes  again. 

Ill 

And  though  the  rapid  moons  shall  ever  mend 

With  heavenly  fire 
Their  high  vicissitudes,  when  we  descend 

WTiere  linger  sire 
iEneas,  Tullus,  Ancus  —  we  shall  be 

But  shades  and  dust! 
WTio  knows  if  the  high  gods  will  add  a  free 

Tomorrow  to  our  trust? 
169 


IV 

So  gratify  yourself;  life  soon  will  pass; 

And  what  you  spend 
Will  foil  an  heir's  hot  clutches.     But,  alas! 

When  you  descend, 
And  Minos  makes  his  proud  arbitrament 

On  each  offense. 
Then,  dear  Torquatus,  neither  high  descent, 

Nor  eloquence. 
Nor  all  your  piety  and  good  intent, 

Will  serve  to  bring  you  thence. 

V 

Nay,  for  not  even  Bian's  self  could  free 

Hippolytus 
From  Hell,  nor  Theseus  wrench  death's  slavery 

From  dear  Pirithous. 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  'io. 

THE  BLIND   ANGEL 

High  in  heaven  an  angel  dwells, 

Palest,  fairest,  of  them  all. 
Though  she  sing  not  Israfel's 

Melting,  golden,  madrigal; 
She  is  loveliest,  fairest  far  — 

Though  no  garland  be  entwined 
In  her  hair;  and  there  a  star 

Glows  in  peace,  for  she  is  blind. 

Though  her  fingers  ne'er  have  spanned 

Humming  harps  of  paradise; 
Though  two  angels  take  her  hand 

When  with  perfumed  wing  she  flies; 
Yet  the  star  upon  her  brow, 

On  that  brow  of  purest  light, 
Shines  on  earth,  so  far  below. 

Where  we  dream  in  endless  night. 
170 


All  the  blind,  of  prayerless  lips, 

Worship  her  with  folded  hands, 
And  she  guides  the  wandering  ships 

Mutely  unto  sunlit  lands; 
All  who  see,  yet  cannot  see, 

Following  her  sweet  face,  may  find 
Rest  and  peace  eternally: 

For  the  blind  shall  lead  the  blind! 

C.  P.  Aiken,  'ii. 


THE  WARRIOR'S    PRAYER 

I  DO  not  ask  for  peace  and  quiet  sleeping, 
Or  that  the  current  of  my  days  may  be 

A  waveless  stream  through  flower-hushed  meadows 
creeping, 
Washed  with  the  moonlight's  dim  pallidity. 

I  do  not  ask  a  heavenly  cloak  to  hide  me 
When  swift  temptations  lurk  along  the  way, 

Nor  for  the  touch  of  unseen  hands  to  guide  me 
Far  and  aloof  beyond  the  battle's  sway. 

I  only  ask  that  I  may  still  be  climbing, 

Meeting  the  shock  of  foes  with  broken  sword, 

When  at  the  last  the  solemn  bells  are  chiming, 
That  call  my  soul  unto  Thy  judgm.ent.  Lord. 

W.  A.  NoRRis,  'i8. 


THE  SUMMONS 

The  storm-clouds  plunge  in  the  wild  northeast, 

The  leaden  sea  is  torn  to  foam, 
The  fog  is  rent  by  snarls  of  wind, 

The  ship  drives  on  where  the  breakers  comb. 

171 


To  leeward  rocks  —  five  fathoms  deep, 

Four  fathoms!  —  three!  —  by  the  swishing  lead; 

She  strikes,  she  reels,  the  waves  crash  home, 
"Oh,  sea,  I  come  to  thy  summons  —  dead!" 

Wilder  Goodwin,  '07. 


THE  LARK 

Hark  to  the  lark! 
How  it  twitters  and  trills, 
Up  soaring! 
Down  pouring 
Its  melody  thrills  — 
"  Twitter-wink,  twitter-wink ! " 
Like  a  rope  of  seed-pearls, 
That  flash  through  the  curls 
Of  an  Indian  dancer. 
Then,  ''Wink,  twitter-wink." 
So  he  twinkles  and  trolls 
Such  a  sally 
Of  grace-notes, 
That  all  down  the  valley 
The  ecstasy  falls 
Into  city-bound  souls, 

Till  they  answer  the  crystalline  echoes  and  calls 
Of  the  bird  on  the  heights 
Who,  when  purple  twilights 
Entrammel  the  mountains  with  nets  of  gold  haze, 
Sings,  "Clink,  and  clink,  and  clink  twitter-wink!'^ 

F.  BiDDLE,  '09. 

AFTER  DEFEAT 

Yes,  I  have  lost.    But  be  not  sad  for  me. 
Because  your  pity  falls  unheeded  quite; 
Others  have  won,  but  none  may  censure  me 
In  that  I  did  what  lay  within  my  might. 

F.  BiDDLE,  '09. 
172 


ISEULT 

I  HAVE  wandered  through  the  woodland, 
Heard  the  bells  of  evening  ring 

Through  the  perfumed  lilac  twihght 
Of  the  flower-wreathed  spring. 

I  've  seen  many  a  summer  sunrise 
Tint  the  fleeting  summer  dawn, 

And  the  clouds,  like  ships  of  silver. 
Throng  the  skies  to  greet  the  morn. 

W'Tien  the  alchem^ist  October 
Changes  green  to  golden  haze, 

I  have  dreamed  away  the  noontide 
Of  the  burnished  autumn  days. 

In  the  silent  T\-inter  midnight, 
WTien  the  embers  grayer  grow, 

I  have  seen  the  sparkling  starlight 
Glisten  on  the  drifted  snow. 

With  a  hope  that  never  falters. 

As  away  the  old  life  streams, 
I  have  watched  and  longed  and  waited 

In  my  Citadel  of  Dreams. 

Harold  W.  Bell,  '07, 


LA  GIOCONDA 

Whence   comest  thou  —  what   distant  land  con- 
ceived thee  — 

And  how  art  thou  alive  these  many  years. 
While  drifting  centuries  have  come  and  vanished 

Before  thine  eyelids  of  a  thousand  tears? 

Strange  sins  and  stranger  virtues  hast  thou  tasted, 
Unsolved  is  thy  grave  and  subtle  air; 

On  thy  pale  forehead  mystery  is  -^Titten, 
And  twisted  in  the  twining  of  thy  hair. 

173 


Did  silver-singing  flutes  enchant  the  twilight, 
And  dost  thou  hear  them  still  on  thy  lone  isle, 

Unheard  by  us,  that  thou  hast  made  eternal 
That  gently  curved  and  faint  archaic  smile? 

I  am  enamored  of  thy  poisonous  beauty, 

Encircled  in  a  spell  beyond  control; 
Sweet  sorceress !    turn  away,  thine  eyes  consume  me, 

And  burn  into  the  marrow  of  my  soul! 

With  thee  before  me  all  else  is  forgotten ; 

Stars  fade  away;  thou,  thou  art  all  my  world! 
Let  us  go  forth  like  haughty,  vanquished  victors, 

With  the  proud  banners  of  our  love  unfurled! 

Proud,  rippling  banners,  borne  adown  the  valley, 
Rosy  and  golden  in  the  morning  light ! 

Yea,  let  us  go!  one  universe  is  narrow, 
Too  narrow  far,  to  hold  the  infinite ! 

Harold  W.  Bell,  '07. 


PHEDRE 

A  GOLD-VOICED  vision,  white  with  passion's  fire, 

And  golden  like  a  daughter  of  the  sun  — 
A  throbbing  pulse  of  agonized  desire 

That  cannot  die  till  Love's  dear  pain  is  won. 
Voluptuous  murmurs,  long-drawn  melodies 

That  shimmering  float  upon  the  perfumed  air  — 
Low  flutings  —  as  across  the  violet  seas 

Some  bark  with  silver  oars,  with  banners  rare, 
Steals  onward  to  the  Islands  of  the  Blest  — 

While  'neath  the  wine-red  sail  a  siren  sings 
And,  floating  by  upon  a  magic  quest. 

The  white  throat  quivers  as  her  high  voice  rings 
And  trails  the  liquid  sweetness  of  her  song 
Far  to  the  golden  westward  —  far  and  long. 

R.  J.  Walsh,  '07. 

174 


IN  THE  FOREST 

In  the  night  the  tree-tops  shake  and  shake, 
Whose  hand  is  this  that  stirs  them  so? 

All  moanmgly  they  quake  and  quake; 

O  be  still,  be  still,  or  my  heart  will  break! 
Whose  hand  is  this  that  stirs  them  so  ? 

None  knows  half  so  well  as  I; 
It  is  the  death-"v\ind  sweeping  by. 

Claude  C.  Washburn,  '05. 


THE  EXPLORER 

Upon  the  last  horizon-line  I  stand 

And  clear-eyed  peer  into  the  distant  haze. 
The  tiny  world  contracts  before  my  gaze; 

I  shatter  all  your  dreams  of  fairydand. 

R.  J.  Walsh,  '07. 


AT  SEA 

Down  from  the  ship's  black  side, 

Do^^Ti  in  the  eventide, 

Where  the  gurgling  eddies  go  sliding  past, 

We  lowered  him  over,  a  hasty  prayer  — 

And  we  left  him  to  God  and  the  ocean  there, 

For  the  ship  was  sailing  fast. 

A  star  came  up  from  the  sea, 

Marking  his  grave,  and  we 

Swning  on  through  the  starlight  winter  night. 

A  thin  ice  moon  on  the  frosty  sky. 

The  sound  of  the  water  swirling  by, 

On  through  the  cold  moonlight. 

Joseph  Husband,  '98. 

17s 


S.\LVAGE 

The  timbers  of  a  derelict 

May  stout  and  sturdy  be, 
Though  the  hull  lies  crushed  and  broken 

Upon  the  scornful  sea. 

The  timbers  of  a  battered  wreck, 

Shaped  to  a  hull  anew, 
May  breast  the  waves  of  conflict, 

As  the  old  ship  failed  to  do. 

Wilder  Goodwin,  '07. 


GOTT  MIT  UNS 

(War  Prize) 

No  doubt  ye  are  the  people:  Wisdom's  flame 
Springs  from  your  cannon  —  yea,  from  yours  alone. 
God  needs  your  dripping  lance  to  prop  His  throne; 
Your  gleeful  torch  His  glory  to  proclaim. 
No  doubt  ye  are  the  people:  far  from  shame 
Your  captains  who  deface  the  sculptured  stone 
Which  by  the  labor  and  the  blood  and  bone 
Of  pious  millions  calls  upon  His  name. 

No  doubt  ye  are  the  folk:  and  't  is  to  prove 
Your  wardenship  of  Virtue  and  of  Lore 
Ye  sacrifice  the  Truth  in  reeking  gore 
Upon  your  altar  to  the  Prince  of  Love. 
Yet  still  cry  we  who  still  in  darkness  plod: 
"  'T  is  Antichrist  ye  serve,  and  not  our  God!" 

C.  H.  Jacobs,  '16. 


176 


LITTLE  COAT-TALLS 

It  was  old  Luis  who  told  me  the  story,  standing 
in  the  arched  doorway  that  opened  into  the  big 
court.  He  shifted  his  huge  hat  repeatedly  from  one 
hand  to  the  other  as  he  explained  the  matter  at 
great  length. 

Trinidad,  who  died  last  week  of  the  cough,  was 
his  brother.  Trinidad  was  a  good  man,  very^  good, 
but  also  he  was  very  poor.  He  had  a  little  son  who 
would  soon  be  nine  years  old,  and  a  young  wife  who 
was  very  poor  and  could  not  support  the  little  boy 
and  herself.  They  had  spent  much  money  for  Trini- 
dad's funeral,  and  had  no  corn,  nor  clothes  enough 
to  keep  them  warm  at  night.  The  little  boy  was 
very  strong  and  could  herd  the  pigs  do^vm  in  the 
field  and  leave  Mateo  to  take  care  of  the  calves, 
which  was  enough  surely  for  one  boy.  The  little 
one  could  take  the  pigs  do-v\Ti  in  the  fields  in  the 
morning,  and  all  day  he  could  keep  them  out  of 
the  turnips,  and  at  night  he  could  bring  them  back 
and  shut  them  up  in  the  big  pen. 

I  expressed  very  positive  doubts  as  to  the  ability 
of  ''the  Httle  one"  to  do  any  such  thing. 

Ah,  but  the  padron  did  not  know  how  brave  the 
little  one  was !  He  was  very  strong  and  -wise  for  his 
years,  and  knew  all  about  pigs.  Trinidad  had  once 
owned  a  pig.  The  little  one  could  run  very  fast. 
He  would  work  for  a  real  a  day,  just  enough  to  buy 
corn  for  himself  and  his  mother. 

I  told  Luis  I  would  give  the  boy  half  a  real  a 
day,  and  would  try  him  for  a  week,  not  a  day  more 
unless  he  did  the  work  well. 

Very  good,  and  many  thanks,  and  would  the  padron 
lend  two  reals  in  advance  on  the  boy's  wages  to  buy 
him  some  clothes? 

This  I  flatly  refused,  but  I  gave  Luis  an  old  gray 
*' cutaway"  coat,  that  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
wear,  even  in  the  seclusion  of  the  ranch. 

177 


"Tomorrow  morning,"  said  I,  "let  him  come  with 
Mateo,  and  go  to  the  pasture  with  the  pigs."  Luis 
took  the  coat  with  a  grave  "Muchas  gracias,"  and 
went  silently  across  the  patio. 

Early  the  next  morning,  when  Mateo  started 
down  between  the  two  big  corrals  with  the  calves 
and  the  pigs,  I  saw  that  he  was  not  alone,  but  in 
the  twilight  of  the  daw^n  I  could  not  see  my  new  em- 
ployee. It  was  not  until  I  rode  down  the  fields  after 
breakfast  that  I  saw  the  child  in  all  his  glory.  At 
first  I  saw  nothing  but  my  old  gray  coat,  sur- 
mounted by  a  sugar-loaf  straw  hat,  dancing  wildly 
about,  apparently  in  a  fruitless  effort  to  head  off 
three  young  porkers  that  were  making  for  the  turnip 
patch.  I  turned  my  pony  toward  them  and  drove 
them  well  out  of  the  way  of  mischief,  then  looked 
back.    The  gray  coat  was  standing  motionless. 

'Xhiquito,"  I  called,  '^Veng'  aca."  (Come 
here.)  The  child  came,  slowly  at  first,  then,  as  I 
motioned,  breaking  into  a  run.  He  stopped  ten 
yards  off,  then  crept  nearer. 

My  first  thought  was  to  curse  Luis  for  a  liar. 
Certainly  the  child  could  not  be  more  than  five 
years  old.  The  tails  of  my  old  coat  were  touching 
the  ground,  and  the  sleeves  were  rolled  back  more 
than  half  their  length  to  allow  the  tiny  hands  to 
protrude  from  them.  His  face  was  perfectly  round, 
and  at  first  glance  showed  nothing  but  a  huge  pair  of 
brown  eyes.  The  nose  and  mouth  were  as  insignifi- 
cant as  raisins  in  a  plum  pudding.  He  looked  up  at 
me,  then  down  again  with  a  comically  demure  ex- 
pression. He  wore  nothing  but  the  coat,  his  hat 
and  a  pair  of  white  cotton  trousers.  I  had  no  faith 
in  his  ability  to  manage  the  pigs,  but  I  told  him 
where  I  wanted  them  to  feed  and  ordered  him  to 
keep  them  within  bounds. 

"Do  you  understand?"  I  asked. 

"Si,  Sefior,"  he  chirped. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

178 


"Salome."  There  was  a  suggestion  of  a  lisp,  and 
a  curious  intonation  in  his  voice,  the  last  syllable 
falling  almost  to  a  wail  as  he  dwelt  on  it.  As  I 
rode  off  I  looked  back  twice  and  saw  him  still  stand- 
ing exactly  where  I  had  left  him. 

For  the  rest  of  the  week  the  hacienda  was  over- 
run with  pigs.  They  were  rooting  about  the  patios 
and  wandering  into  the  dairy.  They  were  in  the  cow- 
sheds and  stables,  stealing  feed  from  the  other 
animals.  They  were  in  the  corral  at  milking  time. 
They  were  snorting  and  grunting  about  under  my 
windows.  For  three  days  I  swore  and  raved  at 
"Little  Coat-tails,"  as  I  had  begun  to  call  him;  then 
I  told  Luis  that  it  would  not  do.  Luis  begged  so 
earnestly  that  I  consented  to  one  more  day's  trial. 
That  day  the  pigs  were  out  of  the  way. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning,  as  I  sat  on 
my  pony  in  the  big  gateway,  a  drove  of  squealing 
pigs  shot  by  me  and  went  galloping  down  between 
the  corrals.  Ten  feet  behind  was  my  old  gray 
coat,  flopping  madly  along  in  a  desperate  effort  to 
keep  up.  They  went  down  the  road  on  a  dead  run 
as  far  as  I  could  see  them,  until  the  big,  round  dust 
cloud  of  their  passing  hid  them  from  sight.  When 
I  went  down  to  where  the  men  were  cutting  sods 
for  the  new  corral,  the  pigs  were  feeding  peacefully 
far  below  the  turnip  patch,  and  Little  Coat-tails 
was  sound  asleep  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  ditch. 
At  sunset  they  came  back  in  the  same  way,  hurling 
through  the  big  gate  like  a  cavalry  charge,  straight 
across  the  patio  and  into  the  pen,  where  they  began  a 
fearful  struggle  over  the  trough  of  buttermilk  which 
was  waiting  for  them.  Every  morning  and  every 
evening  came  the  same  performance.  The  child 
must  have  run  a  mile  and  a  half  every  day,  just  as 
fast  as  his  little  legs  would  move  mth  the  gray  coat- 
tails  flopping  round  them.  Pigs  and  mules  were 
the  only  creatures  on  the  hacienda  that  had  ever, 
to   my   knowledge,    showTi   any   real   spontaneous 

179 


activity,  and  never  before  had  I  seen  a  true  son  of 
Mexico  try  to  keep  up  with  them  on  foot.  I  began 
to  wonder  how  long  Little  Coat-tails  would  keep 
up  this  desperate  chase. 

One  evening,  as  I  sat  in  my  barred  window  at 
sunset,  watching  the  glow  fade  from  the  white  top 
of  Popocatepetl,  I  saw  a  host  approaching  in  a  film 
of  dust,  delicately  reddened  by  the  sunset  light  and 
trailing  off  like  mist  over  a  marsh.  I  thought  at 
first  from  its  slow  movement  that  it  was  the  calves, 
but  as  it  came  nearer  I  saw  Little  Coat-tails  march- 
ing sedately  ahead  of  it.  Then  I  saw  the  pigs  huddled 
timorously  behind.  He  stopped,  and  the  pigs 
stopped  and  crowded  back  a  step.  He  marched  on, 
and  the  pigs  marched  after.  For  miles  the  fading 
plain  stretched  away  to  the  surrounding  hills. 
Fantastic  masses  of  clouds  were  piled  about  the 
horizon,  and  the  two  gigantic  volcanoes  towered 
above  them.  A  tiny  twinkling  light  far  to  the  south 
marked  Ojo  de  Agua,  another  in  the  east  was  all 
that  showed  of  San  Juan  de  Labor.  And  in  the 
midst  of  it  all  Little  Coat-tails  marched  at  the  head 
of  his  cohort  of  pigs.  He  marched  as  if  flaring  trum- 
pets were  in  front  and  victorious  legions  behind. 
Gradually  the  pigs  crept  nearer  to  the  trailing  coat; 
then  an  old  sow  made  a  dart  to  pass  him.  He  turned 
like  a  flash  and  threw  a  stone  which  caught  her  fairly 
in  the  side,  and  she  resumed  her  place.  I  went  to 
the  doorway  of  the  outer  patio  and  saw  them  come 
slowly  up  to  the  big  gate.  There  he  stood  aside 
and  they  charged  into  the  pen. 

"Bien  hecho  (well  done),  Chiquito!"  I  shouted. 
He  stopped  and  looked  at  me  a  moment,  then 
trotted  home.  After  that  he  never  let  the  pigs 
hurry  him,  and  I  am  sure  he  never  hurried  them. 
For  two  or  three  weeks  I  saw  nothing  of  him  or  the 
pigs  except  when  I  happened  to  meet  them  in  their 
coming  and  going.  He  never  came  to  the  office 
with  the  men  on  Saturday  nights  to  draw  his  pay. 

i8o 


His  mother  came,  always  just  as  the  others  were 
going,  and  took  the  money  with  a  timid  "  Gracias, 
Senor,"  and  hurried  away  with  her  rebozo  across 
her  face.  I  could  see  clearly  where  the  child  got  his 
rabbit-like  demeanor. 

One  warm  noon,  as  I  was  taking  my  siesta  in 
the  east  T\4ndow,  in  the  company  of  a  binocular  and 
a  cigar,  I  saw  Little  Coat-tails  far  do^vn  the  fields 
engaged  in  some  curious  movements,  the  meaning 
of  which  I  could  not  make  out  for  sometime.  He 
seemed  to  dart  for^-ard  and  then  turn  round  and 
round  as  fast  as  he  could,  a  dozen  times  or  more, 
then  stoop  and  examine  something  on  the  ground. 
At  last  I  saw  that  he  had  my  pet  litter  of  little  pigs, 
and  was  s-wdnging  them  one  by  one  by  their  tails 
until  they  were  dizzy,  then  kicking  them  with  his 
little  bare  feet  to  see  them  stagger  as  they  ran! 
I  jumped  for  my  pony  and  ca.me  thundering  down 
on  him  before  he  fairly  knew  what  had  happened. 
My  entire  vocabulary  of  Spanish  curses  I  launched 
at  him  ^Aithout  bringing  a  shadow  of  an  expression 
to  his  little  plimi-pudding  face,  so  I  dismounted 
and  cuffed  him,  explaining  that  the  next  time  I  would 
certainly  kill  him. 

'^  Do  you  understand?  "   I  asked. 

''Si,  Senor,"  he  lisped,  absolutely  unmoved  so  far 
as  I  could  see. 

I  rode  off  and  left  him,  standing  in  his  tracks, 
until  I  turned  the  comer  of  the  corral.  When  I 
looked  for  him  -^nth  the  binocular  he  was  not  to 
be  found  —  probably  asleep  in  the  ditch.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  me  to  tell  Little  Coat-tails  that 
he  was  not  to  s'^'ing  the  little  pigs  round  by  their 
tails.  I  began  to  wonder  how  many  more  of  the 
things  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  to  forbid  he  was 
doing  ever>^  day.  The  conclusion  I  came  to  was  that 
it  was  about  time  to  begin  fattening  those  pigs  for 
the  market,  and  I  gave  orders  accordingly  that  they 
were  to  stay  in  the  pen,  and  be  fed  on  com  and 
skimmed  milk. 

i8i 


In  spite  of  their  increased  rations  this  plan  did 
not  suit  them  at  all.  Twice  during  the  forenoon 
of  the  first  day  of  their  confinement  I  found  them 
rooting  and  grunting  about  the  courtyard.  Both 
times  Little  Coat-tails,  who  had  been  sitting  in  a 
sunny  angle  of  the  court,  did  a  man's  w^ork  in 
rounding  them  up  again.  When  I  found  them  at 
large  for  the  third  time  I  began  to  look  for  cause. 
Wrathfully  I  demanded  of  the  boy  w^hether  he  had 
opened  the  gate  of  the  pen  and  let  them  out. 

"Si,  Sefior,"  he  chirped. 

*'l  told  you  to  let  them  stay  inside,"  said  I. 

"Si,  Seiior." 

I  cuffed  him  and  went  to  look  at  the  gate  of  the 
pig  pen.  It  had  been  blocked  with  a  big  stone  that 
Salome  and  three  others  like  him  could  not  have 
moved.  I  went  back  to  him  and  asked  him  again 
if  he  had  opened  the  gate.  He  gazed  at  me  with 
terror. 

"Si,  Senior,"  he  whispered.  I  called  to  Nicanor, 
who  was  washing  milk  cans  by  the  well. 

"Ask  the  little  one  if  he  opened  the  gate  of  the 
pig  pen,"  said  I.  He  put  the  question  quickly  to 
Salome  in,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  the  exact  words  I 
had  used.  Salome  denied  it  vigorously.  Then  I 
began  to  understand.  Certainly  I  could  not  remem- 
ber a  single  intelligent  answer  he  had  ever  given 
me  except  to  tell  me  his  name,  and  the  only  orders  of 
mine  he  had  obeyed  had  been  conveyed  to  him 
through  Luis.  Without  doubt  he  could  manage  the 
pigs  when  he  wanted  to. 

When  his  occupation  was  taken  from  him, 
Salome  took  to  sitting  in  the  sun  by  the  gate  of  the 
pig  pen.  Day  after  day  I  saw  him  sitting  there  as 
I  went  in  and  out,  always  in  the  same  place,  always 
with  the  same  expression  of  dreamy  content  in  his 
big  eyes.  Down  by  the  big  gate  Francisco's  chil- 
dren harnessed  an  old  hound  to  a  soap  box  cart  and 
drove  up  and  down  between  the  corrals.     Salome 

182 


heeded  them  not,  but  sat  in  the  sun  and  attained 
Nir\'ana.  They  put  a  canopy  of  jute  sacking  over 
the  cart  and  drove  like  ^Maximilian  to  Chapultepec, 
but  Salome  paid  no  heed. 

One  morning  Francisco  killed  a  sheep,  and  as  I 
went  out  I  bargained  with  him  for  a  hind  quarter. 
It  was  Salome  who  brought  it  to  my  door,  coming 
silently  and  startling  me  ^sath  his  Httle  wailing 
voice : 

"'Qui  'sta  la  came."  (Here  is  the  meat.)  I 
hung  it  on  the  steelyards,  but  before  I  had  weighed 
it  he  piped  again: 

"Que  de  me  siete  reales."  That  meant  that  he 
wanted  seven  reals.  The  amount  was  correct,  and 
I  handed  him  the  money.  He  fairly  ran  with  it  to 
get  away  from  one  who  said  things  he  did  n't  under- 
stand, and  then  cuffed  him.  In  ten  minutes  he 
wailed  again  at  the  door. 

"Que  de  me  la  tapa!"  In  his  haste  he  had  left 
behind  a  precious  yard  of  cotton  cloth  in  which  the 
meat  had  been  wrapped.  I  gave  it  to  him  and  he 
ran  again. 

It  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  For  three  days  I 
looked  for  him  by  the  pig  pen,  then  I  asked  Luis 
where  he  was. 

"  Gone,  Senor,"  he  replied. 

"WTiere?" 

"Over  there,  Senor,"  pointing  vaguely  toward 
San  Sebastian. 

"WTiy  have  they  gone?"  Luis  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Pues,  quien  sabe,  Senor?" 

R.  P.  Utter,  '98. 


183 


TRIPOLI 

{The  Lloyd  McKim  Garrison  Prize  Poem) 

The  laws  of  God  are  iron, 

The  ways  of  God  are  clear, 
Who  murdereth  shall  pay  with  death, 

Who  thieves  shall  pay  with  fear; 
Not  in  a  red  hereafter, 

But  now,  our  sins  we  sell; 
And  they  who  steal,  on  earth  shall  feel 

The  punishment  of  hell. 

The  theft  is  done,  the  city  won, 

And  all  along  the  sleeping  sea, 
Above  the  heat  of  court  and  street, 

Flutters  the  flag  of  Italy. 
Her  music  blares  across  the  squares. 

Her  battleships  at  anchor  lie. 
Her  ancient  pride  shouts  far  and  wide  — 

Imperial  Rome  shall  never  die! 

The  theft  is  done  —  but  just  begun 

The  certain  punishment  of  fate; 
Think  not  to  boast  a  conquered  coast 

Because  the  nations  smile  and  wait! 
The  Moslem  sleeps,  but  still  he  keeps 

The  law  he  dares  not  disobey. 
And  he  shall  wake.     For  Allah's  sake 

Mohammed  bids  him  rise  and  slay! 

Along  the  sea  of  Barbary 

The  veiled  Senussi's  word  shall  run; 
Beyond  the  wall  your  men  shall  fall 

Silently,  suddenly,  one  by  one; 
Grim  death  shall  stand  at  each  right  hand 

And  flaming  fever  touch  your  brave; 
The  desert-sea  to  you  shall  be 

An  indistinguishable  grave. 
184 


The  laws  of  God  are  iron, 

The  ways  of  God  are  clear, 
Your  trading-men  shall  sicken  then, 

Your  troopers  disappear; 
The  sea  shall  choke  your  divers, 

Your  glory  shall  be  dust; 
For  every  day  on  earth  we  pay 

The  price  of  broken  trust. 

F.  L.  Allen,  '12. 


ETTca  IlTepoevTa  —  WIRELESS   MESSAGES 

Brothers  we  are  to  the  wind  — 

Yet  we  go  where  the  wind  would  die; 
Brothers  we  are  to  the  snow 

That  whispers  adown  the  sky ; 
Brothers  we  are  to  the  clouds  — 

But  their  swiftness  to  ours  is  naught; 
Children  we  are  of  men  — 

We  are  the  wings  of  thought! 

We  slip  betwTxt  the  continents. 

We  pour  across  the  world; 
Swifter  than  meteor's  hot-breathed  rush, 

Or  bolted  lightning  hurled; 
High,  high  above  the  shrunken  earth 

We  soar  and  float  and  glide, 
Whispering  down  the  truths  of  men 

To  listeners  far  and  wide. 

When  blue  skies  arch  a  purple  sea 

With  southern  breezes  warm; 
When  waves  run  high  and  thundering, 

Foam-lashed  beneath  the  storm  — 
When  stars  burn  clear  on  snow-clad  hills, 

Or  brilHant  lightnings  fall  — 
Still,  still  we  hasten  ever  on. 

Before  our  maker's  call. 

185 


Sweet  women  hear  our  word  of  hope, 

And  dry  their  tear-stained  eyes; 
Like  Sleep  and  Death,  with  light-blown  breath. 

We  whisper,  when  one  dies; 
Far-flo^Ti,  we  bear  the  tale  of  war, 

The  trumpet's  gathering  blast; 
Yet  the  song  of  peace  we  never  cease 

To  sing,  when  wars  are  past. 

Brothers  we  are  to  the  night  — 

Falling,  again  we  rise; 
Brothers  we  are  to  the  whirlwind 

That  blasts  and  sweeps  the  skies; 
Brothers  we  are  to  the  dawn  — 

Swift  to  the  sky  it  springs; 
Children  we  are  of  destiny  — 

We  whisper  the  truth  it  brings! 

C.  P,  Aiken,  'ii. 


THE  RECLUSE 

Kneel  beneath  the  marble  dome, 

Era  Ilario ! 
Where  unholy  thoughts  of  home 
Ne'er  may  stray  and  ne'er  may  find  thee. 
Sink  the  sin-stained  world  behind  thee, 
Let  thy  sacred  promise  bind  thee, 

Fra  Ilario! 


'Neath  the  Virgin's  gilded  altar 

Era  Ilario ! 
Pray  with  lips  that  never  falter, 
'Neath  the  Church's  golden  treasure 
Vow  denial  to  worldly  pleasure  — 
Seven  years  of  silence  measure, 

Fra  Ilario ! 

i86 


Far  from  men  whom  God  made  brothers, 

Fra  Ilario ! 
Far  from  God  whom  priesthood  smothers, 
Pray  lest  thy  deep  meditation, 
Crushing  human  aspiration, 
Sink  thee  in  divine  stagnation, 

Fra  Ilario ! 

Rudolph  Altrocchi,  'o8. 

PRAYER 

Send  us  a  scorching  sun; 

Send  us  a  stinging  rain; 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread, 

Yet  keep  us  humble,  heart  and  head; 

Grant  us  o\ir  daily  pain. 

Henry  Gary,  'go. 

THEIR  LOT 

(to  j.  m.  g.) 

Ten  men  set  sail  on  Easter  Day 

From  Dover  to  Calais 
Against  the  channel's  choppy  might 

The  transport  nosed  its  way. 

From  Essex  and  its  yellow  fields 

These  brawny  fighters  came, 
In  each  the  spirit  of  a  child 

Belied  a  warrior's  frame. 

Ten  days  have  passed,  the  battle's  rack 

Has  left  the  chamel  pen, 
In  twisted  shapes,  dread  forms  they  lie, 

All  of  that  glorious  ten. 

For  six  are  counted  with  the  slain, 

And  two  are  all  but  dead, 
Seared,  blasted  forms  that  move  and  sob, 

Which  all  that  see  must  dread. 

187 


And  two  have  lost  the  day's  blest  light, 
And  creep  with  sightless  ken  — 

The  gate  is  locked,  the  key  is  lost, 
For  these  who  once  were  men. 

What  power  dares  to  sacrifice 

These  souls  to  human  hate? 
May  mortals  ruthlessly  destroy 

What  man  may  not  create? 

J.  Gazzam,  '17. 


BY  THE  FLARE  OF  THE  NORTHERN 
LIGHTS 

In  the  frozen  silent  Arctic, 

Where  the  Great  Cold  rules  in  might, 
Where  the  day  is  ice-blue  whiteness 

From  the  snowfield's  blinding  light; 

Where  the  night  is  frozen  stillness, 
And  the  cold  stars  twinkling  gleam, 

And  the  frosty  skies  are  lurid 

With  the  Northern  lights  astream; 

Violet,  blue  and  yellow. 

Copper  and  rose  —  they  glow, 

Flickermg,  ghostly,  flaring, 
Silent,  they  come  and  go. 

Weird,  and  dim,  and  haunting. 
They  gleam  on  the  ice-packed  range, 

'Til  the  gaunt  ice-crags  and  ledges, 
Flare,  and  color,  and  change. 

There  —  in  that  endless  silence, 

At  rest  —  forevermore, 
There  sleeps  a  band  of  the  vanguard, 

Who  trailed  to  the  Northern  shore. 

188 


They  sleep  through  the  frozen  darkness, 
While  the  stars  watch  overhead, 

And  the  streamers  flame  in  the  heavens, 
Sapphire,  copper  and  red. 

No  earthly  care  shall  harm  them, 

They  shall  rest,  while  the  world  grows  old, 
For  their  guardian  Spirit  watches, 

The  pitiless  Northern  Cold. 

At  rest  —  with  the  stars  above  them, 

In  the  silent,  long,  long  nights. 
We'll  leave  them  there  in  God's  ovm  care 

And  the  flare  of  the  Northern  lights. 

W.  C.  Sanger,  jr.,  'i6. 

CHILDREN'S  LAND 

Come  where  the  children  play, 

There  shall  you  know 
Dreams  of  another  day. 

Long,  long  ago; 
When  in  the  Golden  Land 

Likewise  you  played, 
And  on  the  Magic  Sand 

Joyously  strayed. 

Oft  from  your  present  road, 

Dreaming  —  you  glance 
Back  to  the  old  abode. 

As  in  a  trance, 
And  in  your  longing  eyes 

Softly  the  tears 
Tell  you  that  bygone  ties 

Hold  —  through  the  years. 

Come  to  the  Land  of  Dreams, 

Memory  Land; 
Warmly  the  sunshine  gleams; 

Forest  and  sand, 

189 


Orchard  and  shady  grove, 

Hillside  and  plain, 
Call  to  their  early  love, 

Come  back  again. 

City  and  harbor  vast, 

Tideway  and  rail, 
Call  you  to  turn  at  last 

Back  to  the  trail. 
There  in  the  misty  light. 

Tower  and  wall, 
City  of  wondrous  height  — 

Hark  to  its  call. 

So  to  the  Land  of  Spring 

Youthful  and  fair; 
Come  —  it  will  surely  bring 

Rest  from  all  care. 
Bright  is  the  Magic  Sand, 

City  and  Plain, 
Come  to  the  Children's  Land, 

Dream  —  once  again. 

W.  C.  Sanger,  jr.,  'i6. 


THE  JAP  DOLL 

Look,  matte,  look,  there  a-tween  the  shrouds  f 
Catch  the  glint  <?'  that  slash  o'  mornin'  rose? 
There  '5  a  color  like  that  in  a  land  I  knows  — 
Ay,  pinker  than  ever  I  seen  the  clouds  — 
On  the  cheecks  of  a  dancin'  girl. 

I  found  'er  dancin'  in  a  square, 
A  silky  angel,  man,  I  swear. 
She  follows  when  she  seen  my  stare  — 
We  lived  aside  the  sea. 
190 


'N'  there  she's  waitin'  day  by  day, 
A-singin'  in  her  lovin'  way, 
'N '  all  the  time  her  fingers  play, 
Embroiderin'  things  for  me. 

Her  hair  I  'members  most  of  all  — 
Jus'  like  that  on  a  kid's  Jap  doll, 
'N'  she  was  'un  —  bein'  so  small  — 
A  little  heathen  'un. 

God,  matie,  how  'er  fingers  'd  cling, 
A-callin'  me  her  ''sailer-king"  — 
She  'd  drown  for  me,  the  pretty  thing, 
This  daughter  o'  the  sun. 

I  left  'er  after  three  bright  weeks  — 
"A-comin'  back"  was  all  I  speaks; 
'N'  whiter  'n  foam-flakes  went  'er  cheeks  - 
*'Me  here,"  but  knows  I  lied. 

I  got  one  wife  way  'round  in  Maine, 
When  I  'm  aboard,  a  Hell-bent  Jane. 
This  Jap  ain't  mine  by  legal  chain, 
Tho'  true  as  any  bride. 

Look  J  matie,  there  off  the  starboard  stay! 
Catch  the  snow  a-gleam  on  Koyasan  ? 
For  weWe  swingin'  along  to  oV  Japan, 
W  there  I  bids  good-bye  to  the  spray 
To  be  with  my  dancin'  girl. 

R.  N.  Cram,  '17. 


WORLDS  IN  THE  MAKING 

Through  the  endless  night 
Through  the  void  astray; 

Limitless  in  flight. 
Star-dust  drifts  away. 

191 


Ceaseless  radiation 

Whirls  the  dust  afar, 
Ceaseless  gravitation 

Forms  it  in  a  star. 

Thus  a  world  is  made; 

Thus  it  takes  its  place, 
Where  its  course  is  laid 
In  unending  space. 

W.  C.  Sanger,  jr.,  'i6. 


THE  DANCE 

My  lady  is  a  golden  willow  tree, 

And  I,  the  clashing  North  Wind,  sway  her  low  - 
With  witching,  lissome  ease  she  clings  to  me 

As  bending,  swinging,  swirling  'round  we  go. 

Her  silky-silent  vesture  whitely  gleams  — 

Now  shyly  veils,  now  gayly  vaunts  her  charms, 

How  often  fancy-molded  in  my  dreams ! 
Now  slim  and  all-responsive  in  my  arms. 

R.  N.  Cram,  '17. 


PRO  DEFENSIO  .ESTHETICO 

In  a  past  number  of  the  Lampoon  there  appeared 
a  conversation  between  a  normal,  athletic  person 
and  some  pseudo-aesthetic  friends  into  whose  in- 
cense-laden den  he  had  blundered.  The  dialogue 
concerned  itself  with  a  fete  in  Paris  where  the  gen- 
tlemen with  daffodil  natures  had  kissed  each  other, 
shouted  the  Carmagnole  and  danced  wildly.  The 
whole  skit  could  be  summed  up  in  the  story  of  the 
lady  who  said  she  loved  to  hear  the  French  pheasants 
sing  the  Mayonnaise.  At  about  the  same  period 
appeared  the  clever  parodies  of  Mr.  Guedalla  of 

192 


Oxford  dealing  with  those  who  talk  on  "Lar  poor 
lar"  and  signify  nothing. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  only  in  ''take-offs"  like 
the  above  will  the  majority  of  a  college  Hke  Har- 
vard ever  recognize  the  value  of  ffistheticism.  They 
feel  dimly  that  it  exists  in  some  saffron-lined  boudoir 
or  Oriental  be-houried  Paradise;  but  that  an  aes- 
thetic person  can  be  of  any  real  significance  seems 
beyond  the  dreams  of  reality  to  them.  Undoubt- 
edly the  term  has  been  used  to  cover  such  a  multi- 
tude of  sins,  particularly  in  America,  that  in  most 
minds  it  stands  for  effeminacy  and  unproductive- 
ness. As  a  matter  of  fact,  if  we  define  the  term  cor- 
rectly, no  man  can  be  truly  significant  without  being 
aesthetic. 

WTien  then  is  gestheticism?  It  is  the  perception 
of  beauty  in  as  many  and  varied  objects  as  possible. 
At  first  glance  this  seems  simple,  but  when  we  think 
of  the  countless  standards  of  beauty  we  must  stop 
to  define  the  beautiful  itself.  Beauty  is  fitness; 
thus  in  nature  all  loveliness  has  its  nati\'ity  in 
fitness,  and  in  all  art  too  —  particularly  architecture 
—  is  this  true.  Now  if  the  appreciation  of  beauty 
gives  a  man  a  feeling  for  fitness  and  balance,  it  ^ill 
also  give  him  a  broad  s}-mpathy  and  taste,  as  varied 
as  beauty  itself.  And  an  alert  appreciation  is  the 
essence  of  culture.  Culture  is  the  reaction  of  ges- 
theticism  in  that  it  is  the  knowledge  we  acquire 
concerning  a  subject  which  our  senses  or  intellect 
has  told  us  was  beautiful  and  hence  significant. 
The  aesthetic  man  takes  an  active  interest  in  im- 
portant affairs;  and  an  interested  man  is  an  in- 
teresting man.  "But,"  objects  the  "Plain  Citizen," 
"may  I  not  set  my  o^tl  standard  of  what  is  im- 
portant and  interesting?"  Surely;  yet  a  man  who 
said  that  the  most  important  thing  in  life  was  the 
whittling  of  toothpicks  would  be  considered  a  fool. 
To  the  world  at  large  the  man  who  has  football  as 
his  sole  interest  is  regarded  in  much  the  same  Hght. 

193 


Far  be  it  from  anyone  to  attack  athletics  or  hint 
that  the  great  names  of  history  have  had  little 
physical  support,  but  it  is  certainly  not  out  of  place 
to  suggest  that  those  who  are  merely  athletic  should 
not  look  down  upon  but  rather  respect  others  whose 
interests  are  more  varied,  more  fundamental.  Then 
some  will  cry:  "But  we  have  no  intention  of  being 
great,  therefore  why  bring  historical  names  into 
the  argument?"  O  fools  and  blind,  who  clip  your 
own  mngs  when  they  are  just  growing!  Be  great! 
Soar  or  climb  to  your  utmost  capacity  out  away 
from  the  valleys  of  hopeless  mediocrity!  There  is 
so  much  of  beauty  and  importance  in  the  world, 
from  politics  to  art,  that  it  seems  a  crime  to  sit  back 
in  the  curule  dignity  of  undergraduate  ignorance 
and  laugh  at  the  few  who,  with  an  aesthetic  sense, 
have  seen  the  relative  value  and  fitness  of  things 
and  are  trying  to  learn  something  about  the  essen- 
tials of  life  and  mayhap  accomplish  something 
which  has  more  durability  than  a  "frat"  pin. 

All  athletes  will  agree  to  this  —  that  it  is  a  poor 
plan  not  to  be  interested  in  athletics;  yet  strangely 
enough  they  do  not  consider  it  untoward  if  they 
themselves  take  no  interest  in  anything  else.  For 
example:  Music  appeals  to  everyone,  yet  how  many 
know  anything  about  it?  No  one  can  say  that  music 
is  an  effete  cultivation  because  every  man  at  some 
period  or  other  whistles  or  sings.  On  the  whole 
every  human  being  since  Adam  has  been  given  an 
inward  response  to  melody.  How  many  people 
since  Adam  have  responded  to  baseball?  But 
Harvard  College  knows  the  names  of  all  the  League 
Players,  while  the  great  intellectual  musicians  live 
in  neglected  obscurity.  All  athletics,  automobiles 
and  clubs  are  vital  and  necessary,  but  they  do  not 
go  toward  making  a  man  of  force  in  after  life  as  does 
a  knowledge  of  politics  or  literature,  nor  do  they 
give  a  man  that  all-important  sense  of  fitness.  ^  Of 
course  in  the  balanced  aesthetic  mind  there  is  a 

194 


proper  and  large  place  for  interest  in  ordinary  coL 
lege  life  and  athletics;  but  it  does  not  swallow  up 
the  Laocoon  of  culture  and  intellectuality  as  hap- 
pens in  so  many  minds. 

It  is  the  knowledge  of  art,  of  literature,  of  lan- 
guages, of  current  events,  and  the  feeling  for  beauty 
and  proportion  which  makes  life  rich,  which  makes 
a  man  educated,  and  not  a  quarter  educated.  Real 
culture  is  attained  by  carrying  out  a  desire  to  know 
the  finer  things  of  life.  At  the  bottom  of  everything 
in  this  world  lie  beauty  and  goodness,  synonymous. 
Athletics  tend  toward  a  beautiful  body,  clubs  toward 
friendships;  but  when  one  thinks  of  all  the  beauti- 
ful and  wonderful  things  in  the  world,  one  cannot 
fail  to  realize  that  the  aesthetic  person  makes  a 
wider  and  deeper  grasp  than  the  ordinary  person 
who  is  apt  to  despise  him. 

S.  L.  M.  Barlow,  '14 


THE  SEA  CABLE 

From  slope  to  slope  of  beaten  shore 
Beneath  the  bounded  deep  I  go, 

A  league  of  heavy  wave  above, 
The  pillars  of  the  sea  below. 

The  restless  sands  my  pathway  hide 
Beneath  the  tramplings  of  the  tide. 

O'er  barren  wastes  of  yielding  weed 

And  hills  of  crusted  rock  I  creep, 
On  sunless  plains  of  hard'ning  sand 

And  mottled  shallows  in  the  deep. 
Hung  thick  with  weed,  I  swing  across 

A  valley  buried  in  the  waves, 
Above  the  chambers  of  the  sea 

And  ocean's  mossy  treasure  caves. 

195 


A  buried  anchor  binds  my  path 

With  half  a  league  of  rusty  chain 
That  trails  across  the  twilight  sand 

To  rotted  galleons  of  Spain. 
The  fields  of  wave-bent  flowers  bloom 

Around  a  timeless  coral  tree, 
And  buried  forges  melt  and  mold 

New  continents  beneath  the  sea. 

I  hear  no  roll  of  tumbling  surf, 

I  feel  no  shoreward  surge  and  swing, 
Mid  eyeless  creatures  of  the  deep 

And  shells  that  never  learned  to  sing. 
In  chilly  wastes  of  tideless  sea, 

Along  a  silent  path  I  go  — 
The  ranks  of  jealous  waves  above, 

The  fiery  heart  of  earth  below. 

But  hark  —  a  call  to  lands  that  sleep, 
A  voice  must  catch  the  circling  day  — 

At  a  touch  the  thunder  fills  my  heart 
And  I  fling  a  word  of  fire  away 

Through  a  dozen  seas  to  a  waking  land 
While  a  single  wave  slips  down  the  sand. 
J.  Gordon  Gilkey,  '12. 


THE  WIND'S   WAY 

**  A  boy's  way  is  the  wind's  way,  and  the  thoughts  of  youth 
are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Oh  !  The  road  wdnds  long,  and  the  road  winds  far, 

But  never  a  bit  care  I ! 
For  down  below  where  the  bluebells  grow 

Is  the  place  where  the  cool  springs  are. 
And  I  '11  sit  alone  on  a  friendly  stone 

Till  the  noonday-heat  is  by, 
As  gay  as  a  king  on  his  marble  throne  — 

For  never  a  bit  care  I ! 

196 


Oh!  'T  is  far  to  the  place  where  I'll  sup  tonight, 

But  never  a  bit  care  I ! 
For  I  own  the  day,  and  I  '11  go  my  way 

With  a  heart  that  is  free  and  light. 
For  't  is  hope  that  is  joy  in  the  heart  of  a  boy, 

And  't  is  hope  that  will  never  die, 
Nor  sorrow  can  vex,  nor  cares  can  annoy  — 

So  never  a  bit  care  I ! 

H.  E.  Porter,  '09. 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 

Out  of  the  sunset  haze  they  rise 

Over  the  blue  hills'  hidden  rim: 
Spires  that  flash  to  the  dark'ning  skies  — 

Walls  of  crystal  in  shadows  dim; 
Towers  that  shine  as  the  slow  day  dies  — 

Shine  and  fade  as  we  cry  in  vain; 
Wait!    Tomorrow  again  they  rise  — 

These  are  the  castles  built  in  Spain! 

Courts  of  marble  with  fountains  clear  — 

Lawns  where  summer  is  ever  green  — 
These  we  own  as  we  wander  here 

Under  the  plane  trees'  emerald  sheen; 
So  to  linger  a  month,  a  year  — 

Ah,  but  vv'C  may  not  so  remain! 
Parting  comes,  yet  without  a  tear: 

These  are  the  castles  built  in  Spain! 

Every  hope  that  a  heart  can  hold  — 

Every  dream  of  the  years  unborn  — 
These  are  the  treasures  manifold 

Heaping  the  chests  of  pearl  and  horn. 
Love's  bright  curls  are  a  wreath  of  gold: 

Here  a  King  in  his  own  domain. 
Can  he  ever  grow  gray  and  old? 

These  are  the  castles  built  in  Spain  I 


ENVOI 

Youth,  the  journey  is  short  in  spring  — 

Others  travel  the  road  in  vain : 
Time  drags  on  with  a  dusty  wing 

Over  the  castles  built  in  Spain ! 

A.  F.  Leffingwell,  'i6. 


DETERMINATION 

A  COLD  gale  comes  singing  down  with  the  night 
Out  of  the  north  sky, 

Bearing  a  lusty  strength  in  its  grim,  chill  breath, 
A  sudden,  sweeping  stream  from  the  black  ocean 

beyond  the  sky. 
The  last  leaves  of  autumn  are  caught  and  swirled 
Far  down  the  valley  and  away; 
For  over  the  great,  black  hill  to  the  north 
Winter  is  coming  —  and  the  thin  trees  shiver  and 

remember. 
High  in  the  faint  sky,  riding  before  the  wind, 
A  scattered  flock  of  birds  float  swiftly  southward. 
The  old  bear  turns  his  head  and  shuffles  slowly  to 

his  lair. 
Only  the  Traveler  in  the  valley  still  keeps  on, 
Facing  the  storm  unfalteringly  — 
For  he  must  reach  his  goal; 
And  the  fierce  wind,  shouting,  gives  him  strength, 

and  life. 
And  courage  to  keep  on. 

R.  M.  JOPLING,  'i6. 


DIANA 

For  thee  no  more  the  radiant  foam-crests  whiten 
The  fretted  purple  of  a  wine-dark  sea  — 
Nor  snowy-throated  gulls  drift  listlessly 

Above  the  hill-top  where  thy  columns  brighten 

198 


The  green  of  olive  groves;  nor  any  spell 
Remains  of  wind-blo\\Ti  fields  of  asphodel 

Sprinkled  \\dth  poppies.    Thy  clear  eyes  no  more 
See  in  the  forest  as  the  hunt  draws  near 
The  sunlight  glancing  on  a  naked  spear  — 

The  red  stream  spouting  from  the  stricken  boar. 

Shattered  is  every  temple,  and  the  singing 
Was  borne  away  from  sweet  lips  thrilling  low 
On  winds  that  vanished  seaward  long  ago , 
Wild  vines  aroimd  the  marble  porch  are  clinging, 
And  lone  the  heights  where  through  the  trees'  divide, 
White  feet  agleam  on  some  far  mountain-side 

Once  shone.    But  now  only  the  sea-birds  soar, 
Ah,  goddess  over  all  that  then  was  dear : 
Only  the  longing  waves  find  haven  here 
Upon  the  curving  white  breast  of  the  shore. 

A.  F.  Leffingwell,  'i6. 


CLASS  POEM 
{Extract) 

The  triumphs  and  the  pomp  are  done; 
The  long  sad  hours  where  failure  sat 
Are  faded  too  into  the  moonlit  night: 
Thank  God  for  both!  there  is  no  truth  but  that 
Found  in  the  making  of  a  soul 
By  each  of  us  in  turn  —  save  by  the  star 
Of  his  own  soul's  light  overhead 
No  man  was  ever  led,  nor  can  be  led. 
And  life  may  be  a  struggle  and  a  war, 
Or  a  long  peace,  or  anything  that  you 
Or  I  may  -s^vdsh  to  call  it,  still  — 
Give  to  your  God  his  due  — 
Your  God,  I  say,  whatever  he  may  be  — 
And  to  the  devil  his  —  your  devil  too  — 
And  you  shall  find  truth  crown  you  at  the  goal. 

199 


The  teacher  and  the  poet  shall  speak, 

The  worker  through  the  day  be  dumb, 

Yet  what  shall  teacher,  poet  and  all  the  horde 

Of  seers  avail  to  mold  the  worker's  will? 

He  only,  he  alone,  knows  how  to  see 

His  owTi  light;  he  alone  knows  where  to  seek 

The  haven  whither  he  would  come, 

And  only  he  can  worship  his  own  Lord. 

•  ••••••• 

Swinburne  Hale,  ^05. 


THE  SEA  GULL 

Wet  with  the  stinging  spray  he  skims  the  deep, 
A  livid  gleam  of  life,  and  scans  afar 
Where  the  great  breakers  pound  across  the  bar, 
Beneath  the  headlands  where  his  nestlings  sleep. 
Above  the  light  the  keeper  sees  him  sweep 
From  fog  to  fog,  and  vanish  like  a  star 
Down  where  the  unknown  ocean  monsters  are, 
And  hears  his  mournful  crying  on  the  steep. 

And  when  on  winter  days  he  rises  high 
Against  the  squall,  and  swift  on-coming  night, 
And  bares  his  gleaming  to  the  fight. 
Then  are  the  sailors  startled  by  his  cry; 
Darting  spearlike  athwart  the  dark'ning  main 
To  rid  the  helmet  of  the  hurricane. 

J.  S.  Reed,  '10. 


CLASS  POEM 

Life  stands  upon  the  hill  and  calls ; 
The  road  invites,  and  the  open  sea; 
Farewells  are  said;  I  rise  and  go 
Where  life  waits  in  the  morning  glow, 
And  bids  me  come! 
200 


Too  much  of  strife 

Consumes  our  life ! 

The  world  has  taken  dross  to  wife, 

With  pearls  and  pearls 

Has  vround  her  hair, 

And  made  her  face  so  wondrous  fair, 

One  scarce  may  know^  the  harpy  there; 

Has  put  such  power  within  her  hand 

That  few  there  are  who  understand 

When  truth  obeys,  and  lies  command ! 

The  ^-ill  to  see;  the  vrill  to  be! 
To  know  life  understanding^ ! 
Much  might  be  righted  in  a  night, 
If  the  unseeing  were  taught  sight! 

The  winds  blow  in  across  the  sea. 
Whispering  mystery^  of  far  lands. 
The  lure  of  storms  that  are  to  be. 
And  sea- wreck  T\Tithing  on  white  sands; 
With  tale  of  treasures  in  soft  snows 
Of  breaking  foam,  where  no  ship  goes. 

Dare  to  heave  anchor,  sail,  be  free! 
To  ride  before  the  winds  at  sea, 
Stake  life  on  conquest,  if  must  be! 
Or  choose  the  city's  shore,  and  dare, 
Though  bitter  death  and  want  lurk  there, 
The  burden  of  men's  needs  to  bear! 

Behold  the  city,  where  it  gleams, 

Star-touched  upon  a  hill  of  dreams! 

Whose  million  lights  and  million  lights 

Have  hung  for  tens  of  thousand  nights 

Like  glow-w^orms  paused  between  two  flights! 

And  from  a  multitude  of  towers, 

Sweet  bells,  soft-lipped,  tell  out  the  hours. 

201 


The  world  has  taken  dross  to  wife! 
The  city  this,  upon  her  breast 
Is  trade  in  crafty  beauty  dressed 
To  hide  the  truth  that  here  are  men 
Whose  labor  is  but  vain,  for  ten 
Attain  where  thousands  try, 
While  day  and  night  their  trades  they  ply 
Through  which  the  luxuries  are  made 
That  fatten  bargains,  foster  trade. 

To  hide  the  truth  that  hosts  of  men 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  noon  and  night, 
Travel  abreast  a  bridge  condemned. 
Full  in  the  glare  of  the  city's  light! 
For  a  little  gold 
Their  souls  are  sold 
That  one  man  may  improve  his  hold 
On  wealth  already  manifold! 

To  hide  the  truth  that  here  is  shame 
Too  strange  and  horrible  to  name  — 
That  human  life  is  trafficked  in, 
And  innocence  condemned  to  sin ! 

Too  much  of  strife 

Consumes  our  life! 

The  world  has  taken  dross  to  wife; 

With  pearls  and  pearls 

Has  wound  her  hair. 

And  made  her  face  so  wondrous  fair, 

One  scarce  may  know  the  harpy  there! 

The  will  to  see;  the  will  to  be! 
Here  lies  the  heart  of  the  mystery! 

So  little  may  we  see  and  know 
Who  all  day  through  rough  channels  go, 
So  crowded  is  this  human  main  ^ 
And  hindered  by  the  need  of  gain, 
202 


That  while  we  steer  our  passage  through 
Our  eyes  are  blind  to  the  broader  view! 

Where  are  the  leaders  here?  to  say 
*'This  is  the  gold,  this  dross,  look  well!" 
By  depth  of  studied  lore  to  tell 
What  plans  were  set  and  what  befell 
In  history's  yesterday. 

Where  are  the  leaders  here?  to  be 
Of  such  large  heart  and  sympathy 
That  each  of  us  in  him  may  know 
The  master,  brother,  hero,  friend, 
Zealous  to  teach,  inspire,  defend  — 
To  whom  we  freely  go. 

Life  stands  upon  the  hill,  and  calls; 
The  road  in\dtes,  and  the  open  sea; 
Farewells  are  said;  I  rise  and  go 
Where  life  waits  in  the  morning  glow, 
And  speaks  to  me: 

I  am  life! 
Behold  I  build 
By  devious  and  silent  ways. 
For  joy  or  anguish  equal-mlled. 
When  one  by  one  the  years  are  flown. 
And  scholar,  artist,  prince  has  grown, 
Then  once  in  every  million  days, 
There  comes  a  man  whom  the  world  obeys ! 
Amos  Philip  McMahon,  '13. 


BACCALAUREATE  HYMN 

Father  of  all,  we  hft  to  Thee  our  praise. 
Bowed  here  before  Thee  ere  we  go  our  ways, 
Rich  has  Thy  dower  of  blessings  on  us  been, 
Rich  as  reflection  of  Thy  life  serene. 

203 


Oft  have  we  followed  other  steps  than  Thine 
Dimmed  in  our  hearts  the  sacred  fire  divine; 
Grant  we  may  seek  and  find  Thee  as  Thou  art. 
Then  send  Thy  strength  on  every  willing  heart. 

Forward  we  go  from  out  these  hallowed  walls. 
Fearless  with  Thee  where'er  our  duty  calls; 
Sundered  in  body,  make  us  one  in  Thee 
One  in  the  truth  that  makes  Thy  children  free. 

Out  of  the  depths  our  cry  is  ever  heard, 
Doubt  or  temptation  e'er  Thy  love  hath  stirred. 
Saviour,  forsake  not  Thou  our  faltering  way, 
God  of  our  fathers,  be  Thou  ours  today. 

Lionel  de  Jersey  Harvard,  ^15. 


OVER  THE  DOWNS 

Over  the  downs  to  the  tune  of  the  whistling  wind. 
Over  the  downs  to  the  light  of  the  starry  pack, 

On  to  the  hills  and  we'll  leave  for  the  folks  behind 
Dreams  of  our  coming  back. 

We'll  not  be  turning  back  i\dth  the  hills  inviting. 
Range  after  range  of  them,  stretching  on  to  the 
sky; 
Rugged  and  scarred  and  mystical  mountains,  de- 
lighting 
The  soul  of  a  man  till  he  die. 

Then  it's  on  to  the  hills  till  home  and  the  downs 
grow  dim, 
Till  life  is  done  and  we  meet  friend  Death  with  a 
laugh, 
And  the  jolly  old  winds  shall  be  our  funeral  hymn. 
And  the  stars  our  epitaph. 

W.   WiLLCOX,  JR.,  '17. 
204 


THE  AWAKENING 

Hear  the  cold,  gray  wind    that's  stiiring  in  the 
alders  by  the  river, 
Swaying  shards  of  T\ind-seared  rushes  restlessly 
along  the  stream, 
Feel  the  throbbing  in  the  stillness,  and  the  magic, 
maddening  quiver 
Of  the  new-born  spirits  waking  to  the  gypsy  Spring- 
time's dream. 

Hear  the  hyla  in  the  meadow,  piping  bravely  through 
the  night, 
Smell  the  scent  of  balsam  incense,  drifting  softly 
on  the  breeze, 
And  the  moonlight  on  the  river,  whirling  silver  like 
a  sprite 
Dancing  on  the  swirling  water,  by  the  drooping 
alder  trees. 

All  the  forest  croons  a  sleep  song,  dim  and  wistful 
like  a  mother's. 
And  the  w^orld  is  hushed  and  silent,  and  the  restless 
reeds  are  still; 
Waiting  for  the  wonder-secret  to  be  told  to  all 
earth's  brothers. 
For  tonight  the  Spring  is  born,  child  —  ask  the 
old  oak  on  the  hill. 

B.  P.  Clark,  jr.,  'i6. 


AN  ULTIMATUM  OF  NATURE 

Bramton  threw  aside  a  page  of  notes  and  a 
cigarette  and  scuffed  hastily  up  the  stairs  into  the 
big  hall  "vsith  its  rows  of  benches,  its  "kitchen'* 
chairs  and  its  white  plaster  walls.  Once  seated  in  a 
far  corner  of  the  room  before  a  "blue  book"  his 
nervousness  caught  the  unrest  in  the  atmosphere 

205 


of  the  room:  his  hand  trembled  as  he  took  out  his 
watch,  it  shook  as  he  wrote  his  name.  Then  he 
listened  for  the  bell  until  hi?  ears  throbbed  with  the 
rhythm  of  imagined  sound.  Quite  unconsciously  he 
cursed  the  man  in  front  of  him  for  his  confounded 
ease  and  precision  of  manner,  cursed  him  because  the 
back  of  his  neck  looked  white  and  cool.  Bramton 
knew  the  back  of  his  own  neck  was  red  and  hot  — 
he  could  feel  the  blood  pounding  there.  A  shaft  of 
sunlight  which  lay  across  the  floor  wriggled  like  a 
snake  in  agony.  Bramton  wondered  if,  after  all,  it 
payed  to  stay  up  all  night  to  "  cram"  an  examination. 
It  had  been  most  necessary  to  study  until  the  last 
minute.  The  instructor  was  young  and  in  his  cal- 
lowness  he  would  doubtless  try  to  impress  the 
faculty  that  his  course  was  "scholarly";  he  had 
even  announced  to  the  class  that  he  would  demand 
definite  answers  rather  than  generalities,  a  remark 
which  had  been  jeered  by  a  hundred  foot-beats. 

Two  days  before  Bramton  could  not  even  remem- 
ber, in  a  definite  way,  what  the  course  was  about; 
since  that  time  he  had  lived  and  fought  with  dis- 
gustingly fat  books  in  the  library,  and  with  eye- 
trying  notes  in  his  own  room,  until  the  whole  mass 
of  facts  whirled  about  in  his  brain  like  the  details  of 
a  bad  dream. 

When  the  night  before  the  examination  came, 
it  found  Bramton  hot-headed  and  nervous  —  still 
striving.  When  a  light-hearted,  carefree  acquaint- 
ance dropped  in  at  midnight,  whistling  the  finale  of 
the  harem  scene,  he  found  Bramton  imbibing  great 
beakers  of  cold  tea  and  beating  on  his  forehead  with 
a  pencil  to  keep  awake. 

"Go  to  bed,  you  ass!"  he  said  in  laconic  play- 
fulness. 

"Very  sorry.  Getting  a  critical  and  analytical 
bead  on  the  course.  Step  out,  will  you?  "  He  went 
on  turning  pages  with  an  uncertain  hand. 

Morning,  gray  cold  dawn  and  a  flurry  of  snow  — 

206 


day  had  come  and  Bramton  had  arisen  stiffly  from 
his  chair,  blown  out  the  lamp,  stared  blankly  out  at 
a  telephone  -^^ire  which  the  eye  could  never  focus 
and  turned  again  to  the  desk  with  its  chaos  of  books, 
diagrams  and  papers. 

And  now  as  he  sat  waiting  for  the  bell,  with  the 
chill  of  an  empty  stomach  and  the  dizziness  of  a 
sleepless  night  upon  him,  he  wondered  if  all-night 
sessions  in  preparation  for  midyears  was  not  — 
just  then  the  bell  rang. 

Bramton  saw  the  proctors  divide  and  redi\4de 
between  themselves  piles  of  clean-looking  examina- 
tion papers,  and  in  his  obscure  comer  he  waited, 
plucking  at  his  collar.  He  wondered  at  his  owa 
frantic  ner\^ousness ;  he  w'ondered  at  the  rudeness 
wdth  which  he  finally  snatched  at  the  paper.  Then 
he  felt  the  cool  printed  sheet  between  his  unsteady 
fingers. 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  absurd,  sleep  or  no  sleep," 
said  he,  straightening  up  in  his  chair  with  somev/hat 
the  same  determination  to  be  clear-headed  which 
comes  to  men  befuddled  with  liquor,  but  still  mind- 
ful of  their  dignity.  He  turned  to  scan  the  questions 
on  the  paper,  and  as  he  read  one  after  another  a 
wonderful  peace  came  over  his  mind,  a  restfulness, 
a  luxurious  relaxation.  The  examination  was  a  farce. 

Bramton  wondered  that  the  man  across  the  aisle 
with  the  thin  hands  and  the  gold  cuff  buttons  should 
look  troubled.  It  was  all  so  easy,  so  elementary,  so 
childish.  He  had  studied  far  beyond  the  require- 
ments of  any  such  test  as  this.  It  would  bore  him 
to  write  these  answers  —  it  was  like  answering  en- 
graved invitations. 

Engraved  invitations?  WTiy,  no!  because  the 
sun  streamed  in  through  the  window  and  lay  dovvTi 
on  the  floor  very  quietly.  There  were  little  sprouts 
growing  wherever  there  was  sunlight.  And  waves 
—  soft  waves  —  lapping  this  way  and  that  —  very 
softly.    They  were  gone.    But  right  away  they  were 

207 


back  again  —  lapping  on  the  edges  of  sunlight  and 

a  quiet  sound  —  louder,  harsher,  nearer.   Then  came 

the  crash  of  reality. 

''The  examination  will  close  in  five  minutes." 
Bramton  once  more  could  see  the  neck  of  the  man 

in  front  of  him  cool  and  white,  and  he  cursed  him 

for  his  confounded  ease  of  manner. 

Richard  Washburn  Child,  '03. 


IN  THE   GRAND   CANYON 

A  SPECTRAL  ocean,  hewed  in  colored  stone, 
With   chiseled   peaks  for  waves  and   mist   for 
spume; 

Forever  hurled  beneath  the  sunlit  zone, 
By  pagan  gods  of  old  enraged  with  doom. 

Down,  ever  down,  the  endless  chasms  fall 
To  depths  where  brooding  spirits  haunt  the  plain, 

And  cry  "Thou  speck,  climb  on  against  the  wall, 
The  second  moves,  the  centuries  remain." 

Harry  R.  Peterson,  '13. 


IN  A  BOAT  CABIN 

An  empty  darkness,  save  the  tiny  bar 
Where,  centered  in  the  hatchway's  feeble  glow, 
A  single  yellow  star  burns  clear  and  slow. 
Like  some  strange  lantern  on  a  distant  spar. 

No  voice  to  break  the  silence,  deepened  more 
By  sobbing  of  the  waves  against  the  side, 
The  creak  of  rigging  in  the  anchor  ride. 
And  sullen  ground-swell  breaking  on  the  shore. 
Harry  R.  Peterson,  '13. 
208 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  THE  HARVARD 

MAN 

This  brief  account  of  a  famous  character  of  fiction 
is  not  a  biography,  hardly  a  sketch;  space  forbids 
more  than  a  mere  suggestion  of  one  or  two  of  the 
incidents  of  a  marvelous  career.  He  of  whom  we 
write  is  a  composite  character,  taken  bodily  from 
many  thousand  pages  of  America's  best  sellers; 
he  is  the  Harvard  man  knowm  to  all  readers  of  our 
magazines,  and  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  young  lady 
novelist.  Familiar  and  natural  a  figure  as  he  may 
be  without  the  college  gates,  he  has  grown  up  in  our 
midst  unrecognized,  and  passed  from  us  before  we 
knew  he  had  been  here.  It  is  time  that  our  eyes  were 
opened,  that  we  became  better  acquainted  with  this 
man  who  is  the  type  of  us  all. 

Our  first  glimpse  of  him  is  as  he  was  in  his  under- 
graduate days  —  carrying  the  ball  across  the  Une 
in  the  fabled  \dctory  over  Yale,  while  frenzied  multi- 
tudes thundered  forth  his  name,  and  far,  far  up  in 
the  stands,  She  stood  silent,  both  hands  pressed 
tightly  to  her  heart.  He  was  not  thinking  of  the 
victory  as  he  sat  that  night  in  the  corner  of  the 
club  —  he  had  escaped  the  congratulations  of  his 
friends  to  retire  to  this  solitar}^  spot.  So  She  had 
sent  him  no  word  —  well,  no  matter,  all  women  are 
false,  and  the  world  is  a  vain  thing  —  he  will  forget. 
With  a  hollow  laugh  he  lights  a  cigarette,  and  boards 
the  Subway  to  Park.  What  a  scene  of  animation, 
what  radiant,  scintillating  colors,  how  white  the 
tables,  how  beautiful  the  women,  how  cheerful  the 
sound  of  the  ice  clinking  against  the  sides  of  his 
tall  glass!  But  all  is  dark  to  him;  darker  still,  as 
the  hackman  helps  him  up  to  his  princely  apart- 
ments in  Claverly. 

This  is  the  cheerful  beginning  of  our  hero's 
career.  The  following  June  he  graduated  in  a  blaze 
of  glory,  being  president  of  his  class,  captain  of  all 

209 


the  teams,  class  orator  and  other  things  too  nu- 
merous to  mention.  It  is  on  class  day  that  we  see 
him  for  the  last  time  as  an  undergraduate.  They 
are  sitting  at  a  window  in  Holworthy  —  he  and 
She  —  the  strains  of  the  band  float  gently  up  to 
them  —  below,  strings  of  bright  lanterns  swing  to 
and  fro  in  the  light  breeze,  and  as  he  gazes  do^vn  at 
the  lively  scene,  his  eyes  grow  moist.  Dear  old 
Harvard,  dear  old  college  days!  A  soft  hand  steals 
into  his  —  ah,  She  understands!  —  Let  us  change 
the  scene. 

Red  Gulch  and  the  classic  shades  of  Cambridge 
—  here  is  a  contrast  indeed.  It  is  needless,  not  to 
say  impossible,  to  tell  how  our  hero  was  transported 
from  the  latter  to  the  former  spot,  yet  here  he  was 
one  bright  morning  in  July.  The  one  straggling 
street  fairly  sizzled  in  the  sun  as  he  walked  up  to 
the  door  of  the  Wild  Cat  saloon.  Within,  the  group 
of  red-shirted  miners  gathered  at  the  bar  turned  to 
gaze  curiously  at  the  tall,  broad-shouldered  young 
stranger,  then  — ''Drinks  round,''  shouted  one; 
''You're  in,  stranger!"  "Pardon  me,"  replied  our 
hero,  politely,  "but  I  never  drink."  —  "What!" 
yelled  Alkali  Ike,  jumping  three  feet  into  the  air. 
"Not  drink  when  Alkali  Ike  sets  'em  up!  Stran- 
ger — "  "Pardon  me,  but  I  do  not  drink."  Though 
he  spoke  with  the  utmost  courtesy,  there  was  a 
crispness  in  his  words  and  a  ring  to  his  voice  that 
might  have  warned  the  burly  giant.  Too  late! 
With  a  roar  of  rage  Alkali  Ike  sprang  at  him  — 
they  clinched,  and  with  the  strength  born  of  many 
a  gridiron  fight,  our  hero  hurled  his  opponent 
through  the  door.  Thus  he  won  his  place  in  the 
affections  of  Red  Gulch. 

It  was  the  same  story  all  through  his  life  in  the 
rugged  West.  Whether  he  was  digging  for  gold,  or 
roping  bronchos  on  the  plains,  or  driving  an  engine 
on  his  father's  railroad,  the  rough  men  around  him 
invariably  grew  to   love  and  admire  him,  though 

2IO 


recognizing  that  he  was  not  as  they  were.  In 
every  action  his  Hansard  training  was  apparent, 
though  he  modestly  tried  to  hide  his  superiority 
from  his  fellows,  and  mingle  with  them  on  a  plane  of 
equality.  But  how  can  a  man  hide  his  Harvard 
breeding?  Every  morning  he  shaved,  and  went  to 
his  work  vdth.  the  bottoms  of  his  overalls  rolled  up 
—  the  Harvard  hallmark  was  stamped  upon  him. 
More  than  one  Western  maiden  sighed  to  herself 
as  he  passed  by,  but  his  heart  was  invulnerable. 
Back  in  civilization,  back  in  God's  country,  back  in 
old  Cambridge,  there  was  a  Girl.  Could  he  ever 
forget  their  parting,  far  up  in  that  room  in  Hol- 
worthy,  miles  above  the  turmoil  of  class  day? 

It  is  impossible  to  go  further  into  the  details  of  our 
hero's  life,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  is  rather  con- 
fusing. He  must  have  been  a  creature  of  various 
m.oods  and  occupations,  how  else  should  we  recog- 
nize him  as  a  comical  Xew  York  clubman,  as  an 
Arctic  explorer,  as  a  Tammany  leader,  as  a  soldier 
of  fortune  in  South  iVmerica,  as  the  gray-haired 
principal  of  a  young  ladies'  seminary  in  the  Back 
Bay?  Yet  all  these  things  he  undoubtedly  was, 
and  more  besides.  Why  should  we  tell  of  his  life 
as  a  Russian  anarchist,  or  delve  into  his  career  in 
the  Latin  quarter?  Always  the  same,  whether  driv- 
ing an  automobile  in  Switzerland,  or  a  wheel- 
barrow on  the  Bowery,  we  can  sum  up  his  life  and 
character  in  the  simple  words:  ''He  was  a  t}^ical 
Harvard  man  —  and  he  got  the  Girl." 

K.   B.   TOWNSEND,  '08. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  SEA 

The  eerie  fog  \\isps  trail  between  the  dunes 
That  rise  from  out  God's  ever  mindful  keep. 

The  meaning  of  the  surf  a  wild  tale  croons 
Of  those  who  toiled  and  died  upon  the  deep. 
211 


By  mad  green  seas 

Whose  kisses  freeze, 
Whose  snake  crests  hiss  and  run, 
The  puny  works  of  man  are  whirled. 
Wild  lightning,  like  bright  arrows  hurled. 
Rends  the  dark  robe  the  storm  unfurled 

To  hide  a  sullen  sun. 

On  white,  white  sails 

The  sunshine  pales, 
Wide  smiles  the  summer  sea. 
That  calls  men  to  a  foreign  land. 
To  mystic,  magic  coasts  where  stand 
Hope  and  Adventure,  hand  in  hand, 

To  guide  eternity. 

The  eerie  fog  wisps  trail  between  the  dunes 
That  rise  from  out  God's  ever  mindful  keep. 

The  moaning  of  the  surf  a  wild  tale  croons 
Of  those  who  toiled  and  died  upon  the  deep. 

J.  M.  Moore,  'ii. 


HONOR 

Dead  lie  the  gorgeous  standards,  stained  and  torn, 
On  many  a  gallant  face,  oft  scarred  and  battle  worn. 
Still,  Lord,  with  broken  sword  guide  me  to  fight: 
The  stars  shall  shine  but  on  the  dead  tonight. 

J.  M.  Moore,  'ii. 


THE  WEST  TODAY 

Land  that  the  lakes  have  brided, 
Land  that  our  grandsires  won, 

A  home  for  the  race  they  guided 
To  rise  when  their  day  was  done, 

212 


Your  voice  cries  out  in  the  storm  air, 

The  call  of  the  wolverine, 
The  tale  of  the  rifle  and  plowshare 

In  sod  that  no  seed  has  seen. 

Land  of  the  new-bom  cities, 

Land  that  our  fathers  claimed, 
WTiose  river  laughs  past  as  it  pities 

The  earth  that  the  steel  has  tamed, 
Your  voice  rings  out  thro'  the  smoke-pall. 

The  roar  of  the  red  blast-fire, 
To  men  who  have  risked  all,  and  won  all 

To  build  them  a  fimeral  pyre. 

Land  of  men's  joys  and  sorrow, 

Whsit  message  is  ours  today? 
For  we  shall  have  molded  tomorrow 

The  w^ords  that  our  lives  shall  say. 
''The  God  of  that  great  ending, 

Wliich  recks  not  the  races  of  men, 
Shall  gather  them,  as  they  come  wending, 

And  weid  them  in  one  again." 

"Do  ye  rise  on  the  wings  of  the  nations 

From  the  dwarfish  gods  of  clan, 
Shake  off  their  incantations 

For  the  ritual  of  a  man. 
And  so,  in  the  battles  of  others, 

Shall  ye  ser\^e  \\ith  sword  or  pen, 
The  God  who  was  God  of  your  fathers, 

The  West  that  ye  love.    Go  thenl" 

J.  M.  Moore,  'ii. 


ON  A  BIRTHDAY 

Do\\'N  the  worid  together, 
Through  the  lusty  dawn; 

Every  wave's  a-feather, 
Every  sword  is  drawn : 
213 


Youth  and  hope  and  morning  where  the  white  road 

goes; 
Youth,  hope,  morning,  and  the  true  red  rose. 

Men  shall  ride  to  meet  you, 

Men  shall  trudge  behind, 
Wayward  songs  shall  greet  you, 

Calling  down  the  wind. 

Memory  and  star  gleam, 

Hope  and  windy  sun, 
Till  we  reach  the  far  stream 

Where  the  road  is  done. 

Where  the  years  are  rolled  away, 

All  the  years  are  one, 
May  you  find,  so  sad  and  gay. 

Rose  —  behind  —  the  —  sun. 

Soldiers  may  we  stand,  boy, 

Find  the  world  too  small, 
Gallant  heart  and  hand,  boy, 

Ere  to  part  at  all! 

Down  the  world  together, 

Through  the  lusty  dawn; 
Every  wave 's  a-f eather, 

Every  sword  is  drawn. 

Youth  and  hope  and  morning  where  the  white  road 

goes; 
Youth,  hope,  morning,  and  the  true  red  rose. 

J.  M.  Moore,  'ii. 


BABYLON 

Within  the  gates  of  Babylon 
There  are  no  sighs  of  death, 
Only  the  wasted  weary  breath 
Of  desert  air  and  Syrian  sun. 
214 


But  lords  forespent  in  Babylon 
By  yielded  wild  desire 
Attend  the  lull  of  dance  and  lyre, 
And  music  ends  what  thirst  begun. 

The  gardens  sway  in  Babylon 
With  fiery  fruits  of  joy; 
The  roses  riot,  droop  and  cloy, 
And  waste  their  petals  one  by  one. 

And  all  the  halls  of  Babylon 
Are  thick  with  musk  and  myrrh, 
And  houris  dancing  through  the  blur 
Their  dizzy  perfumed  courses  run. 

In  all  the  homes  of  Babylon 

There  are  no  eyes  asleep, 

Only  the  mothers'  vigils  keep 

The  doom,  long  bartered,  still  undone. 

Beyond  the  walls  of  Babylon 
The  plains  and  empty  skies. 
Save  where  a  veering  vulture  flies 
Athwart  the  sickly  S>Tian  Sun. 

George  W.  Gray,  '12. 


A  LITANY 

Our  songs  have  lost  the  lilt  of  youth. 
We  have  not  w^on  the  peace  of  age; 

We  seek,  but  dare  not  find  the  truth. 
Nor  face  tomorrow's  heritage. 

A  heritage  of  squandered  wealth. 
In  land  and  lives,  in  heart  and  soul; 

A  nation  flushed  mth  fever-health 
Mole-groping  for  a  hidden  goal. 
21^ 


From  naked  living  growing  blind, 

Wind-driven  by  each  idle  pen ; 
We  drift  —  yet,  hopeful  of  our  kind, 

We  hold  the  dream  that  made  us  men. 

Send  Thou  a  prophet  robed  in  fire 
To  wield  the  whip  of  urgent  need, 

To  guard  the  port  of  our  desire. 
To  weigh  the  worth  of  Christ  and  creed! 

Send  Thou  a  prophet  tongued  with  flame 
To  scourge  our  ancient  self-content; 

Our  souls  have  felt  the  dawn  of  shame, 
Send,  Thou,  and  teach  us  to  repent! 

Harold  Trowbridge  Pulsifer,  'ii, 


THE  ACOLYTE 

My  body  is  a  sacred  thing, 

A  shrine  of  flesh  and  bone. 
Wherein  the  dear  God  comes  to  sing 

The  songs  I  call  my  own. 

My  spirit  burns  with  limpid  flame, 

I  pray  with  blinded  eyes, 
Unknowingly  I  chant  the  name 

That  is  all  Paradise. 

I  am  the  silent-footed  priest, 

The  temple  and  the  bell  — 
A  star  within  the  blazing  East 

That  out  of  Heaven  fell. 

I  am  the  star-born  morning  light 
That  pales  beside  the  sun  — 

I  cannot  see  the  blessed  sight 
Since  God  and  I  are  one! 
Harold  Trowbridge  Pulsifer,  'ii, 
216 


usQUEQuo  do:mine  ? 

I  FOLLOW  when  the  blossoms  call 

To  where  the  mountain-shadows  shake 

In  silence  over  Como's  lake; 

WTiere  vines  make  sweet  the  yellow  wall, 

To  lie  through  lingering  afternoons 

Of  lily-sweet  Lethean  days, 

And  watch  the  soft  ensilvering  haze, 

All  drowsy  on  the  dim  lagoons; 

Or  in  the  storied  Apennines, 

Shrouded  in  summer  glooms,  to  trace 

Some  tower's  scattered  stones,  to  pace 

Some  antique  sacristy  of  pines. 

Not  yet,  and  still  not  yet,  dear  Lord? 
Must  the  cold  sun  forever  set 
In  civic  haze  —  forever  yet 
And  for  long  waiting  no  reward? 

Van  Wyck  Brooks,  'o8. 


LECTURES 

A  BOY  sat  on  the  end  of  the  long  bench  outside 
the  Dean's  office,  twiddling  his  thumbs  and  listen- 
ing expectantly  for  the  periodic  "come"  sounding 
behind  him.  Finally  the  Dean's  door  opened  and 
the  previous  delinquent  came  out.  The  Dean  re- 
ceived the  newcomer  very  cordially,  went  over  with 
him  his  attendance  record  in  the  book  of  fates,  ad- 
monished him  to  do  better  and  ushered  him  out 
with  the  remark : 

"If  you  were  in  a  business  house  this  number  of 
absences  would  mean  dismissal,  and  you  must  con- 
sider your  college  work  as  seriously  as  business." 

The  boy  walked  briskly  over  to  his  eleven  o'clock, 
opened  his  notebook  and  waited  for  the  professor 
to  begin.    At  the  end  of  the  hour  he  took  the  notes 

217 


to  his  room  and  compared  them  with  a  passage  in 
the  professor's  book. 

"The  old  man  forgot  one  thing  this  year,"  was 
his  mental  comment;  and  then  he  sat  smoking 
through  the  next  lecture,  trying  to  think  what  was 
the  businesslike  thing  to  do. 

There  are  a  few  men  in  the  United  States  who 
can  make  twelve  good  speeches  a  week.  There  is 
hardly  another  body  of  men  who  could  keep  up  so 
good  an  average  for  such  a  tremendous  volume  of 
speech-making  as  the  lecturers  in  Harvard  Univer- 
sity. It  hardly  seems  fair  to  have  these  men  say 
over  year  after  year,  not  the  facts  or  ideas  that  they 
themselves  have  discovered  or  thought  out,  but  a 
series  of  facts  the  greater  part  of  which  are  in  any 
encyclopedia.  A  professor  who  should  give  to  his 
class  the  maximum  number  of  dates  and  events  or 
chemical  formulae  in  a  fifty-minute  period  and 
nothing  more,  might  just  as  well  be  a  talking  ma- 
chine; might  better  be  a  book.  His  personality 
counts  for  nothing.  His  originality  has  no  oppor- 
tunity, and  his  individuality  is  smothered. 

If  the  lecturer's  duty  is  to  give  out  a  given  quan- 
tity of  information  in  a  given  time,  no  business  man 
ever  performed  his  task  with  more  conscientious 
exactness  than  do  some  of  the  lecturers  in  Harvard 
College.  If  the  work  of  the  students  is  to  get  this 
information  in  a  businesslike  way,  most  of  them 
may  likewise  be  credited  with  a  good  performance. 
They  find  the  most  accessible  list  of  these  facts  and 
learn  them.  In  some  courses  the  most  accessible  list 
is  their  own  lecture  notes;  in  others  the  professor's 
book  or  possibly  printed  notes  (either  for  the  cur- 
rent or  the  previous  year). 

It  is  but  natural  that  these  embryo  business  men 
should  take  the  shortest  route  to  their  goal.  By 
letting  other  people  do  their  work  they  can,  of  course, 
save  time;  but  in  this  case,  they  do  not  reach  the 
goal,  although  they  often  believe  that  they  do. 

218 


"But,"  it  is  objected,  "such  criticism  of  the  pres- 
ent lecture  system  is  unfair.  Take  for  one  example 
the  work  of  Professor  James.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  his  personality  and  individuality  are  strong  in 
every  lecture." 

True  enough.  We  all  know  it  and  take  pride  in 
it.  But  because  it  exists  simultaneously  with  and 
under  the  present  system  does  not  prove  that  it 
exists  because  of  the  present  system.  It  exists, 
rather,  in  spite  of  the  present  system. 

Harvard  professors  Vv^e  have  always  considered 
as  more  than  ordinarily  learned  men.  Yet  many 
of  them  are  doing  work  w^ll  within  the  abilities  of 
mediocre  scholars.  No  other  modern  industry  keeps 
its  capable  men  at  the  necessary  but  mechanical 
jobs.  Why  should  we  not  allow  the  instructors, 
with  the  aid  of  books,  to  see  that  the  students  master 
the  list  of  facts,  even  as  the  less  important  workers 
in  any  other  ^industry  with  the  aid  of  machinery 
do  the  bulk  of  the  rougher  preliminary  work?  With 
this  foundation  prepared,  the  lecturers  could  build 
great  things.  They  would  have  an  opportunity  to 
use  those  qualities  of  mind  which  raised  them  from 
the  ranks.  The  students  of  Harvard  College  would 
never  hear  a  lecture  which  was  not  prompted  by 
thought  (as  distinct  from  memory)  and  which  was 
not  calculated  to  inspire  —  or  at  least  to  afford  op- 
portunity for  —  a  like  quality  in  them.  They  could 
have  access  to  the  qualities  which  differentiate  these 
professors  from  mere  collectors  of  facts  and  formulae. 
The  advantage  of  the  personal  element,  which  they 
now  miss  three  times  a  week,  they  could  have  in 
reality  then  at  least  once  in  that  period,  for  it  is  the 
contact  with  a  man's  mind,  and  not  with  his  mem- 
ory, which  is  instructive. 

Our  present  method  seems  but  a  wasteful  one,  for 
we  have  our  best  men  doing  work  which  others  could 
do  just  as  well.  If  w^e  had  the  instructors  to  do 
what  they  are  capable  of  doing  —  making  the  stu- 

219 


dents  learn  the  facts;  and  had  their  work  reduced 
within  the  Hmits  of  human  possibility  —  for  but  a 
few  men  can  make  three  good  speeches  a  week  on 
three  or  four  different  aspects  of  a  subject  —  then 
we  should  be  conducting  college  work  on  a  business- 
like basis.  We  should  be  getting  better  results  from 
the  students  and  therefore  better  results  from  the 
faculty. 

This  is  the  forward  step  which  President  Woodrow 
Wilson  has  made  at  Princeton.  There  are  some 
courses  in  Harvard  College  run  partially  in  this 
way,  and  some  to  which  this  system  w^ould  not 
apply.  Yet  there  are  many  of  our  courses  which 
would  be  infinitely  more  profitable  under  such  a 
system. 

A.  Page,  '05. 


THE  DRAMATIST  AS  CITIZEN 

In  a  literal  sense,  a  citizen  is  one  who  owes  alle- 
giance to  his  government  and,  reciprocally,  is  en- 
titled to  protection  from  it.  In  our  own  country, 
such  allegiance  comprises  the  duty  and  the  right  of 
the  male  citizen  to  vote  at  the  polls,  to  fight  —  if 
called  upon  —  in  war,  and  of  all  citizens  to  pay  taxes 
as  legally  assessed,  and  to  obey  the  statutes. 

In  that  restrictive  sense,  the  government  of  the 
United  States  accords  citizenship  to  many  millions. 

But  in  the  larger  sense,  a  citizen  is  one  who  owes 
to  his  fellow  country  men  all  public  service  of  his 
special  capacity  and,  reciprocally,  is  entitled  to 
opportunity  from  public  opinion  to  perform  such 
service.  That  special  capacity  will  chiefly  depend 
on  his  vocation  in  the  community. 

In  this  larger  sense,  public  opinion  in  the  United 
States  recognizes  men  and  women  of  special  capacity 
in  numerous  vocations  as  "leading  citizens,"  or 
''public  servants.  .  .  ." 

220 


Considering,  therefore,  the  extraordinary  public 
influence,  for  good  or  for  evil,  inherent  in  the 
dramatist's  profession,  is  it  not  pertinent  —  is  it 
not  timely  —  to  inquire  into  the  attitude  of  public 
opinion  toward  the  drama,  with  a  view  to  ascertain- 
ing what  standards  of  responsibility  and  efficiency, 
if  any,  determine  the  dramatist's  practice  of  his 
profession? 

First,  then,  how  far  does  pubhc  opinion  realize  the 
extraordinary  public  influence,  for  good  or  for  evil, 
of  the  dramatist's  profession? 

Secondly,  how  far  is  public  opinion  ready  to 
accord  to  the  dramatist's  profession  equal  oppor- 
tunities with  other  professions  of  leadership? 

Thoroughgoing  answers  to  these  questions  would 
account,  I  think,  for  the  status  and  standards  of 
the  dramatist's  profession  in  our  country  today. 
In  the  present  paper  I  can  but  suggest  a  few  paths 
of  thought,  which  I  hope  may  lead  others  far  better 
qualified  than  I  to  detect  and  marshal  the  signifi- 
cances of  a  subject  among  the  most  neglected  and 
important  of  our  time. 

"Neglected  "  —  a  neglected  subject?  Have  I  not 
made  a  questionable  assertion?  Is  there  a  single 
other  subject  which  consumes  as  much  wood- 
pulp  per  annum  in  the  columns  of  our  new^spapers 
as  the  subject  of  the  theater?  Is  there  a  single 
other  denizen  of  the  side-fences  —  not  excepting 
Sapolio  —  as  ubiquitous  as  the  play  poster?  Into 
the  Pullman  windows  of  the  Sunset  Limited,  it 
cries  aloud  from  the  wilderness.  Even  the  indigent 
ash  barrel  shares  its  fame.  WTierever  two  and  two 
are  gathered  together,  the  topic  of  the  theater  is  the 
very  ointment  and  Omega  Oil  of  conversation. 
Is,  then,  the  subject  of  the  drama  neglected? 

In  one  sense,  no;  decidedly  no.  The  drama,  as  a 
social  and  commercial  fact,  is  everywhere  super- 
ficially discussed.  But  the  meaning  of  the  drama  as 
a  contemporaneous  civic  force  is  rarely  imagined  or 

221 


considered.  Plays  and  players,  as  wares  of  the  thea- 
ter, are  wonderfully  advertised;  but  the  theater 
itself,  as  perhaps  the  mightiest  potentiality  for  civic 
enlightenment  and  education  in  America,  is  almost 
nowhere  studied  and  criticised  |with  a  view  to  its 
higher  status  as  an  institution.  Its  actual  status  is 
simply  accepted  as  inevitable,  and  all  discussions 
of  the  problems  and  progress  of  the  drama  are  di- 
rected toward  what  the  drama  can  do  under  the 
circumstances.  There  is  no  concerted  rational  plan 
to  change  the  circumstances  themselves  for  the  better. 

Consequently,  from  decade  to  decade,  this  or 
that  player  or  dramatist,  or  theatrical  producer, 
according  to  his  special  efforts,  is  the  object  of 
praise  or  blame  from  public  opinion,  while  the 
basic  commercial  conditions  of  the  institution,  which 
has  brought  player  and  dramatist  and  theatrical 
producer  into  being,  are  simply  ignored.  Under 
these  circumstances,  of  course,  progress  in  the  drama 
is  limited  to  the  basic  conditions  of  the  theater  as  an 
institution  of  private  speculative  business. 

Now  an  institution  of  speculative  business  is  not 
the  same  thing  as  an  institution  of  civic  enlighten- 
ment. That  platitude  has  been  rammed  home  for 
American  citizens  to  their  cost,  in  cases  of  more  than 
one  great  business  enterprise  gone  awry,  as  witness 
the  insurance  investigations.  That  same  platitude 
is  being  ignored  by  American  citizens  in  the  case  of 
the  theater,  but  with  this  important  difference: 
Intelligent  investigation  of  the  insurance  companies 
revealed  pernicious  conditions  which  touched  only 
the  vest-pockets  of  the  people.  Intelligent  investiga- 
tion of  the  theaters  will  reveal  pernicious  conditions 
which  strike  deeper  —  into  the  very  hearts  and  minds 
and  souls  of  the  people. 

Again,  have  I  made  a  questionable  assertion? 
Or  am  I,  contrary  to  your  probable  opinion  of  me, 
about  to  wield  the  proverbial  muckrake  in  a  new 
barnyard?     Neither,  I   assure   you.     Do  I,  then, 

222 


mean  that  the  controllers  of  the  theaters  in  America 
are  shamefully  abusing  a  public  trust?  Not  at  all. 
They  have  received  no  public  trust.  They  have  no 
such  thing  to  abuse.  Do  I  allude,  then,  to  militant 
business  combinations  in  the  theater?  —  to  Syndi- 
cates and  Anti-S>Tidicates?  No,  still  less,  for  these 
are  of  very  little  importance  to  our  subject.  Still, 
I  have  alluded  to  "pernicious  conditions"  in  the 
theater:   to  what  conditions,  then,  do  I  refer? 

In  Le^ds  Carroll's  ''Through  the  Looking  Glass," 
Alice  desires  to  reach  a  particular  vie^\point  on  a 
distant  hill.  But  every  time  she  attempts  to  make 
toward  it,  she  walks  instead  into  her  owa  doorway. 
Therefore,  explains  the  author,  "she  thought  she 
would  try  the  plan  of  walking  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection. It  succeeded  beautifully.  She  had  not  been 
walking  a  minute  before  she  found  herself  in  full 
sight  of  the  hill  she  had  been  so  long  aiming  at." 
To  reach  my  particular  viewpoint,  I  also  will  re- 
sort to  this  looking-glass  method,  in  hopes  of  reach- 
ing —  by  a  process  of  reversal  —  the  desirable  hill- 
top, with  a  bird's-eye  \dew  of  my  meaning. 

Review^g  the  present  theatrical  situation,  it 
seems  but  yesterday  that  we  in  America  were  walk- 
ing in  medieval  darkness  and  superstition.  Let  us, 
for  a  moment,  briefly  set  forth  the  status  of  the  thea- 
ter in  our  countr}"  today,  that  we  may  compare  it, 
in  recollection,  with  the  status  of  yesterday. 

In  the  first  place,  today  in  every  important  city 
of  the  land  there  is  erected,  at  a  convenient  central 
point  in  the  community,  an  ample  and  beautiful 
building,  capable  of  seating  an  appropriate  pro- 
portion of  the  population.  This  building,  by  the 
simple  grandeur  of  its  architecture,  is  seen  at  first 
glance  to  be  the  permanent  home  of  a  vital  ci\dc 
institution:  an  institution  vital  not  merely  to  chang- 
ing seasons  of  a  cult  of  playgoers,  but  to  the  con- 
tinuous generations  of  citizens.  This  is  inmiediately 
evident  to  the  casual  observer  by  the  fact  that  the 

223 


only  other  public  buildings  comparable  to  it,  in 
solemnity  and  permanence  of  design,  are  the  Court 
House  and  the  City  Hall  (or  Capitol),  with  which  it 
is  architecturally  grouped. 

This  municipal  building  is  the  Theater;  not 
Jones'  theater,  nor  Rosenbaum's,  nor  Robinson's, 
but  the  Theater;  the  house  of  the  conscious  life  of  a 
free  community.  Here,  foremost,  are  focused  the 
highest  efforts  of  all  artists.  Here,  in  visible  symbol 
for  the  thronging  people,  the  sculptor  has  recorded  in 
stone  and  bronze  the  noblest  traditions  of  the 
people's  life:  their  civic  leaders,  among  whom  are 
seen,  harmonious,  their  statesmen,  their  artists, 
their  soldiers,  their  scientific  inventors  and  philoso- 
phers —  the  liberators  of  men,  gazing  on  whose 
perennial  forms  the  meanest  of  the  crowd  at  their 
pedestals  may  hope  one  day  so  to  be  beautifully 
recorded.  Here  the  artist  painter,  collaborating  with 
the  dramatist  in  a  new  technique,  devotes  his  crafts- 
manship to  the  creation  of  new  stage-settings,  up- 
building fresh  traditions  in  his  art  by  permanent 
masterpieces,  beside  which  the  bric-a-brac  wings  and 
drops  of  yesterday  show  like  the  ephemeral  make- 
shifts of  children;  here,  too,  he  competes  with  his 
fellow  artists  for  the  honor  of  executing  the  perma- 
nent frescos,  which  add  a  lighter  loveliness  to  the 
solemn  spans  of  the  auditorium.  Here  the  musical 
composer  correlates  his  special  art  with  that  of 
the  painter,  and  subordinates  it  to  the  objects  of 
dramaturgy.  Here  the  dramatist,  the  focal  artist 
of  this  focal  art  of  the  community,  competes  with 
his  fellow  dramatists  in  executing,  for  the  selective 
approval  of  his  peers,  dramas  which  shall  most 
splendidly  express,  by  passion,  imagination,  beauty 
and  delight,  the  vital  significances  of  the  people's 
history  —  past,  present  and  prophetic. 

Here  the  actor,  disciplined  in  the  old  and  new  tra- 
ditions of  the  play,  chosen  by  competition  with  his 
fellow  actors,  by  standards  of  native  insight,  ex- 

224 


perience,  adaptability,  excellence  in  movement, 
pantomime,  gesture,  eloquence,  speech  —  embodies 
the  passion,  imagination,  beauty  and  delight  of  the 
dramatist's  conceptions. 

Here  other  technicians  in  arts  which  yesterday 
were  latent  or  unconceived  —  the  masker,  the  tapi- 
cer,  the  leader  of  pantomime  and  dance,  the  master 
of  lights  and  disappearances  —  ply  their  expert 
crafts,  like  practiced  members  of  an  orchestra,  under 
the  viewless  baton  of  the  theatrical  director. 

Here,  most  of  all  —  the  object  and  the  instigator 
of  these  combined  efforts  of  artists  —  the  audience 
holds  its  civic  ritual. 

Is  it  not  strange  that,  for  more  than  two  thousand 
years,  the  communal  desire  of  occidental  peoples 
should  have  dispersed  itself  in  factions,  and  found 
no  single  harmonizing  instrument  to  express  itself, 
until  —  in  the  evolution  of  the  American  democracy 
—  the  theater  once  more,  as  in  ancient  Greece,  ex- 
pressed the  oneness  in  vdll  and  character  of  a 
nation? 

But  at  last  in  America,  in  the  twentieth  century, 
when  the  church  had  long  since  become  moribund, 
split  by  many  sects  and  schisms,  and  essentially 
unadapted  to  express  the  unity  and  variety  of  na- 
tional consciousness,  and  while  the  national  con- 
sciousness of  the  democracy  itself  was  becoming 
enlarged  and  uplifted  by  an  unprecedented  impulse 
of  civic  pride  and  regeneration  —  the  true  potential- 
ities of  the  theater,  long  dormant,  were  realized  by 
the  leaders  of  public  opinion. 

These  leaders  then  perceived  that  in  the  nature 
of  the  drama  itself  there  lay  ready  to  their  hands  a 
form  and  t^pe  of  expression  adapted  to  harmonize 
religious  impulse  with  civic  growth;  to  give  to  na- 
tional progress  vital  and  visible  symbols.  But 
these  leadeis  also  perceived  that  this  potentiality  of 
the  drama  could  never  be  realized  until  the  theater, 
the  drama's  communal  instrument,  should  be  dedi- 

225 


cated  to  public,  not  private  ends.  This  light  was 
slow  to  break  upon  the  minds  of  those  leaders. 
When  at  last,  however,  its  full  meaning  dawned, 
then  —  almost  as  with  the  passing  of  night  —  there 
was  commenced,  quietly,  unostentatiously,  inevita- 
bly, that  reformation  in  the  status  of  the  playhouse 
which  has  converted  our  theaters  into  cathedrals  of 
communal  delight  and  our  dramas  into  rituals  of  civic 
aspiration. 

Now  in  reality  the  theaters  belong  to  the  people. 

In  some  instances  wealthy  citizens  of  the  com- 
monwealth have  presented  to  the  city  the  building, 
with  a  maintenance  fund  in  perpetuity,  and  so  per- 
petuated their  own  fame,  like  that  of  Rufus  Hol- 
conius  of  Pompeii,  whose  beneficent  gift  of  a  theater 
to  his  city  has  conserved  his  name  in  the  ashes  of 
two  thousand  years.  In  other  instances,  the  munici- 
pality itself  —  through  channels  analogous  co  those 
of  the  public-school  system  —  has  authorized  the 
expenditure  of  public  funds  for  the  building  and 
perpetual  endowment  of  its  theater.  In  still  other 
cases,  significant  organizations  of  leading  citizens  — 
such  as  the  National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters  — 
have  stood  sponsors  for  raising  and  establishing  the 
needful  foundation  fund.  In  all  cases  the  public 
theaters  —  being  established  for  the  civic  welfare  of 
their  communities  —  have  been  safeguarded  by  re- 
liable and  perennial  trusteeships. 

For  occasions  of  dramatic  performances  (which 
regularly  occur  four  or  five  nights  in  the  week) 
seats  are  provided  —  sometimes  gratis,  sometimes 
for  a  nominal  sum  —  through  a  special  ofiice,  whose 
function  is  the  equitable  distribution  of  seats. 

Thus  endeth  the  tale  clipped  from  Tomorrow 
evening's  Comet.  (The  tails  of  comets  are  prover- 
bially nebulous.)  I  wonder  whether  tomorrow's 
newspaper  —  like  tomorrow  —  never  comes! 

But  now,  having  by  these  meteoric  methods 
alighted  on  our  looking-glass  hill,  we  may  sit  down 

226 


and  look  back  upon  the  two  questions  which  sent  us 
forth. 

First,  how  far  does  pubHc  opinion  realize  the  ex- 
traordinary public  influence,  for  good  or  for  evil, 
of  the  dramatist's  profession? 

I  think  the  answer  has  been  suggested.  Either 
public  opinion  realizes  little  or  nothing  of  that  vast 
influence,  or  public  opinion  is  inexcusably  remiss  in 
failing  to  direct  that  influence  into  the  channels  of 
civic  welfare.  Of  this  alternative  we  must  certainly 
assume  the  former  to  be  true.  Public  opinion  does 
not  realize  the  vast  scope  and  significance  of  the 
dramatist's  profession  as  a  civic  influence.  There- 
fore it  has  become  one  of  the  important  responsi- 
bilities of  the  dramatist  as  citizen  to  help  enlighten 
public  opinion  with  regard  to  the  fitting  status  of 
his  profession.  And  this  leads  to  our  second  ques- 
tion: 

How  far  is  public  opinion  ready  to  accord  to  the 
dramatist's  profession  equal  opportunities  with 
other  professions  of  leadership? 

The  conomercial  experts  of  the  theater  are  right 
when  they  say  that  the  theater,  as  an  institution,  is 
what  you  make  it.  They  are  not  concerned  by  self- 
interest,  however,  to  inform  you  that,  if  you  will  take 
the  trouble,  you  can  m.ake  it  a  very  different  and  a 
better  institution.  For  obvious  and  sensible  rea- 
sons, the  commercial  experts  themselves  will  not 
take  the  trouble.  If  you  expect  that,  you  will  wait 
forever  and  deserv-e  to  wait.  In  fact,  you  have 
been  waiting,  and  doing  little  else.  That  is  the  dead- 
lock in  the  drama's  progress.  But  if  you  yAW  take 
the  trouble  to  analyze  theatrical  conditions  dis- 
passionately, you  will  see  that  the  first  step  necessary 
to  permanently  establish  the  dramatic  profession 
on  a  basis  of  civic  dignity  and  usefulness,  is  to  change 
the  logical  incentives  of  the  profession:  to  change 
its  prime  incentive  from  one  of  private  speculation 
for  personal  profit  to  one  of  public  service  for  the 

227 


highest  reward  of  citizenship  —  the  honor  of  wise 
men. 

Public  opinion  has  accorded  this  wiser  incentive 
to  other  professions.  Why  does  public  opinion  with- 
hold it  from  the  profession  of  the  dramatist? 

Perhaps  because  the  dramatist's  profession  is  it- 
self a  factor  in  creating  public  opinion  opposed  to 
its  own  higher  interests.  For  its  own  survival,  it 
must  needs  exemplify  attributes  which  conduce  to  a 
low  opinion  of  its  nature. 

A  more  fundamental  reason  for  the  lethargy  of 
public  opinion  toward  the  drama  is  that  this  is  an 
inherited  tendency  of  Anglo-Saxon  communities. 

There  is  yet  a  third  potent  reason  which  is  em- 
bodied in  the  old  adage:  ''What  is  everybody's 
business  is  nobody's  business." 

Everywhere  it  is  everybody's  business  to  seek 
enjoyment;  in  the  theater  it  appears  to  be  nobody's 
business  to  show  them  how  to  do  so,  to  their  owti 
best  advantage.  Yet  it  is  precisely  this  "Nobody's 
Business"  which  is  undertaken,  with  organized 
system,  by  our  universities,  art  schools,  medical 
colleges,  churches,  cHnics,  public  schools;  and  for 
this  ''Nobody's  Business"  hundreds  of  millions  of 
dollars  are  donated  in  our  country,  by  communities 
and  individuals,  as  a  free  gift  for  the  cause  of  educa- 
tion: the  cause  of  how  to  be  happy  wisely.  Is  not 
this  equally  the  legitimate  cause  of  the  theater? 
If  so,  then  where  is  a  single  million,  as  a  free  gift, 
for  the  cause  of  the  theater? 

The  drama  is  splendidly  capable  of  reconciling 
the  best  ideals  of  the  Puritan,  the  Greek  and  the 
Cathedral-builder;  of  blending  —  in  one  lay  relig- 
ion —  the  service  of  the  state  and  the  service  of  God. 
The  drama,  I  say,  is  capable  of  doing  this,  in  a  thea- 
ter free  to  do  so ;  but  the  drama  is  not  able  to  do  this, 
in  a  theater  compelled  to  do  otherwise. 

We  may  yet  as  well  begin  to  realize  now  —  as 
later  it  shall  be  universally  realized  —  that  this  ques- 

228 


tion  of  freedom  for  the  theater  is  an  issue  far  larger 
than  concerns  the  theater  alone.  It  is  an  issue ^  as 
comprehensive  as  the  relation  of  art  itself  to  citi- 
zenship. 

Is  art  useful  to  the  state?  If  so,  shall  opportunity 
be  accorded  for  art  to  perform  its  highest  public 
service?  Shall  our  artists,  as  artists,  be  responsible 
citizens,  or  time-servers  and  hangers-on  in  the 
democracy?  Shall  the  stigma  of  dilettantism  be 
removed  from  the  vocation  of  the  artist,  and  the 
stigma  of  showman's  wares  from  the  work  of  the 
dramatist?  Shall  art  merely  survive  by  chance,  and 
individual  emolument,  or  shall  it  be  fostered,  sus- 
tained and  cherished  by  the  organized  will  of  public 
opinion?  On  the  other  hand,  shall  our  average 
American  citizen  continue  to  be  stigmatized  as  a 
Goth  —  and  a  vandal  in  imagination  and  taste? 
Or  shall  our  leading  citizens  take  forethought  and 
action  to  raise  the  aesthetic  average  of  citizenship, 
as  they  have  already  taken  steps  to  raise  its  average 
in  narrower  fields  of  education?  Shall  America 
herself,  so  long  taunted  by  the  Old  World  for  her 
lack  of  artists,  begin  to  realize  why  she  lacks  artists, 
and  begin  to  remove  natural  competition  from  her 
fields  of  culture  as  assiduously  as  she  removes  it  from 
her  fields  of  agriculture?  Or  shall  our  crop  of  artists 
remain  meager  and  sporadic  from  ignorant  neglect, 
while  our  crops  of  corn  and  wheat  are  plowed,  sown 
and  protected  by  masterly  intelligence? 

These  are  questions,  the  rational  answers  to  which 
are  planks  in  the  platform  of  that  sane  and  pro- 
gressive revolution,  which  is  today  deeply  at  work 
to  extirpate  all  economic  servitude  from  our  body 

politic. 

Percy  Mackaye,  '97. 


229 


PART  IV 


LOVE 

"  Now  you-all  better  not  write  many  verses  on  love.   Write 

of  something  you  have  had  more  expe'ience  of." 

—  Arthur  W.  Page,  '05,  Advocate. 

Speech  of  "Advice  to  Young  Editors." 


WAR  IN  FLANDERS 

My  lover  has  gone  to  Flanders, 
My  lover  has  gone  to  war  — 

And  left  me  here 

To  weep  and  fear, 
And  find  my  peace  no  more. 
For  with  the  hosts  in  Flanders 
He  laughs  and  drinks  his  wine, 

And  sings  and  sips 

Of  Flemish  lips, 
But  thinks  no  more  of  mine. 

My  lover  has  gone  to  Flanders, 
And  cried  out  as  he  went, 

"Ah,  pity  me 

To  go  from  thee 
To  war's  grim  banishment!" 
Oh,  warring  hosts  in  Flanders, 
That  fight  and  drink  your  wine. 

What  wound  of  sword 

Or  bioken  word 
Is  half  so  deep  as  mine? 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '05. 

JEALOUSY 

How  Botticelli  could  have  drawn 
Slim-fingered  you,  all  saintly  eyed! 

It  makes  me  glad  that  I  was  born  — 
And  glad  that  Botticelli  died. 

H.  T.  P.,  '00. 

THE   CRAFTY  MRS.   CARTON 

Mrs.  Carton,  I  have  a  surprise  for  you!" 
"Pleasant  or  unpleasant?" 
"That,  like  everything  else  in  this  vale  of  tears, 
depends  on  the  point  of  view." 


*'I  suppose  I  may  as  well  be  prepared  for  the 
worst!"  And  Mrs.  Carton  smoothed  back  her  soft 
gray  hair  with  a  pensive  rise  of  the  eyebrows. 

'*I'm  engaged!"  suddenly  remarked  Sally,  with 
a  rush  and  a  blush. 

''You  needn't  tell  me  to  whom,"  answered  her 
chaperon,  by  way  of  congratulation. 

''Now  don't  be  disagreeable  when  you  can  be  so 
nice.  If  /  could  make  people  happy  simply  by  pat- 
ting them  with  dimply  white  little  hands,  why  I  'd 
do  so  to  everybody,  including  even  disobedient, 
frivolous,  altogether  unworthy  young  females. 
Now  won't  you  pat  me?"  Sally  put  her  hand 
pleadingly  on  Mrs.  Carton's  knee. 

Miss  Norton  was  a  New  Orleans  belle,  and  such 
are  difficult  to  resist  (others  knew  this  besides  the 
long-suffering  Mrs.  Carton).    So  the  end  had  come. 

"Heaven  alone  knows  why  I  submitted  to  the 
proposition  of  guiding  your  infant  footsteps  over 
Europe.  The  fact  that  I  am  your  mother's  friend 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  refused  to  go  to  Bar 
Harbor  with  my  own  nieces,  who  have  n't  your  — 
hum  —  New  Orleans  nanner,  and  I  'm  considered  a 
wise  woman,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal  in  Boston. 
But  Sally,  my  siren,  your  beaux  yeux  were^  too 
much  for  me,  and  I've  regretted  it  ever  since. 
How  can  I  enjoy  the  works  of  one  Sandro  Botti- 
celli when  I'm  haunted  by  the  thought  of  you  and 
an  indigent  Italian  count,  loitering  a  room  or  two 
behind?  How  can  I  delight  in  Bartet  at  the  Comedie 
when  you  and  a  titled  Russian  are  flirting  with  the 
slow,  steady  hum  of  two  amorous  bumblebees? 
And  here  Devonshire  is  ruined  for  me  by  the  suc- 
cessful machinations  of  an  English  baronet!  How 
can  I  go  home  and  look  your  mother  in  the  eye?" 

"Dear  Mrs.  Carton,"  murmured  Sally,  "it'll  be 
so  charming  for  you  to  visit  me  at  Northcote  Hall. 
Just  think!" 

"I  am  thinking!    He's  old." 

234 


**Just  forty.  He's  merely  beginning  to  mellow, 
that's  all." 

"Bah!    He  dyes  his  mustache ! " 

''I'm  thankful  it  is  n't  his  hair." 

''He's  the  kind  of  man  that  sulks  through  an 
entire  dinner  if  the  soup  's  cold,  and  makes  the  first 
day  of  every  month  like  a  breath  from  the  lower 


regions." 


"But,"  observed  Sally,  arranging  her  bangles, 
"he  's  a  baronet  and  'Lady  Northcote'  sounds  too 
alluring  to  pass  by." 

"  Now  if  you  really  cared,  I  would  n't  say  a  word," 
continued  Mrs.  Carton.  "But  you  don't,  you  only 
think  you  do,  and  you'll  live  to  wish  that  you'd 
never  been  born." 

"Oh,  I  admit  that  I  can  see  him  enter  the  room 
without  feeling  weak  about  the  knees,  but  then  I've 
never  met  the  man  who  has  made  me  —  made  me 
—  well,  you  knovy\" 

"That's  not  saying  that  he  doesn't  exist,  my 
dear,"  responded  the  Uttle  old  lady  sagely.  "When 
the  time  comes,  you'll  know.  By  the  way,  my 
nephew  is  in  England.  You  never  met  him,  did 
you?  Harv^ey  Bennett,  of  New  York?  I  think," 
she  added  slowly,  "I  think  I'll  write  him  a  good 
long  letter." 

"We  have  just  an  hour  before  the  motor-car 
comes.  It's  really  half  an  hour,  but  Scrimshaw 
evidently  considers  anticipation  as  far,  far  sweeter 
than  realization.  I  shall  occupy  the  time  in  writing 
to  my  forthcoming  bridesmaids." 

"Better  not  tell  them  his  name,  Sally." 

"Why?" 

"It  might  save  you  the  trouble  of  writing  new 
notes  later  on,"  chuckled  jMts.  Carton.  "Now  run 
along!" 

"I  don't  beheve  Camille  wall  ever  bring  us  to 
the  top  of  this  hill,  say  rather  this  mountain." 

235 


*'Why  do  you  always  call  the  car  'Camille'? 
I  can't  see  the  connection." 

"Are  n't  they  both  French,  and  of  precarious 
health,  and  has  n't  each  a  dreadful  cough?  There, 
just  listen  to  the  poor  thing.  I  said  we'd  never  get 
to  the  top!"  And  Sally,  like  a  satisfied  Cassandra, 
settled  back  in  her  seat,  as  the  machine  slowed  up 
and  then  stopped  with  an  exhausted  sigh. 

''What's  the  matter  now,  Scrimshaw?"  asked 
Mrs.  Carton. 

"I  think  she's  rather  tired,  mum." 

"Well,  give  her  some  alcoholic,  petrolic  stimu- 
lant, address  her  softly  in  her  native  French,  appeal 
to  her  sense  of  responsibility,  do  so?nething  and  do  it 
quick!"  commanded  Sally.  "I'm  cold  and  it's 
six  o'clock,  and  w^e  can't  spend  the  night  up  here  on 
this  black  hill  with  sheep  for  hosts.  Think  of  our 
rooms  at  Windermere!" 

"Something  tells  me  we  shall  never  see  those 
rooms  tonight.  Our  tires  are  gashed,"  said  Mrs. 
Carton  mournfully. 

"What?"  exclaimed  Sally.  "How  do  you  know? 
They're  not,  are  they.  Scrimshaw?" 

"I  felt  them  go  pop.  Yes,  that's  right,  get  out 
and  look  at  them,  Scrimshaw,"  said  Mrs.  Carton  in 
some  haste.  "No,  Sally,  there's  no  necessity  for 
you  too.    It's  so  —  damp." 

"You're  right,  mum,"  came  a  voice  from  below. 
"Both  clean  gone.  We'll  not  reach  Windermere 
tonight." 

"What  shall  we  do?"  wailed  Sally.  "I  thought 
tires  always  went  off  with  a  terrific  bang." 

"Not  always,"  said  Mrs.  Carton  easily,  "do  they, 
Scrimshaw?  Dear  me,  the  situation  is  a  trifle 
strained,  is  n't  it?  Alone,  on  a  bleak  Cumberland 
moor,  at  least  five  miles  from  Allston!  That's  the 
nearest  town,  is  n't  it.  Scrimshaw?  And  night  com- 
ing on!  Far,  far  from  Windermere  —  and  they 
say  the  inn  at  Allston  is  unendurable,  don't  they, 

236 


Sciimshav/?    We  certainly  are  in  a  bad  way.    What 
shall  we  do?" 

''Scrimshaw,  go  and  walk  to  Allston  and  get  a 
horse  to  tow  us  in." 

''What!  And  leave  us  here  at  the  mercy  of  every 
passing  brigand?  Sally,  I  am  surprised  and 
grieved!" 

"Well,  we  have  n't  a  thing  to  eat,  except  marrons 
glacis,  and  they  are  n't  exactly  the  very  thing  for 
arctic  expeditions,  which  this  seems  to  be.  It's 
getting  colder  and  colder,"  shivered  Sally  from  the 
depths  of  her  motor-coat.  "Scrimshaw,  why  don't 
you  do  something?  Sitting  there  \\*ith  a  grin  won't 
help  us  any!" 

The  plump  and  devoted  chauffeur  started  to 
speak,  but  Mrs.  Carton  laid  an  unseen  and  restrain- 
ing hand  upon  his  arm. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  turning  to  Sally,  "he  can't 
manufacture  new  tires  out  of  rain ;  surely  your  edu- 
cation has  taught  you  that!  And  you  wouldn't 
have  an  extra  tire  or  two  on  the  car,  you  said  it 
spoiled  the  general  chic.  There's  nothing  to  do 
but  sit  still  and  await  some  kindly  disposed  passer- 
by." 

"Mrs.  Carton,  I  never  knew  you  so  resigned  to 
fate.  WTiat's  the  matter?"  Then  suddenly, 
"Listen!" 

Far  from  below,  in  the  mist  and  dark  of  the  road 
beneath  them,  came  an  unmistakable  sound,  the 
chug-chug  of  a  car. 

"The  road  's  not  so  deserted  after  all,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Carton  placidly. 

"But  they  may  refuse  to  stop,"  breathed  Sally. 

"Oh,  I  think  they  will." 

The  sound  came  nearer  and  nearer.  Finally  the 
machine  turned  a  sharp  curve  and  they  saw  it  at 
last,  a  big  red  Mercedes,  containing  a  single  figure, 
the  driver  swathed  in  rubber  and  fast-goggled. 
He  stopped  just  behind  the  ladies,  and,  dismounting, 

237 


came  up  to  offer  his  assistance.  Mrs.  Carton  raised 
her  veil  to  reply,  and  Sally  was  startled  by  the  for- 
ward rush  of  their  rescuer. 

"Why,  it's  Aunt  Ruth!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
seized  Mrs.  Carton's  hands  over  the  mud-guard. 

''Why,  Harvey!"  she  cried  with  the  greatest  sur- 
prise. ''You  here?  How  very,  very  fortunate! 
Allow  me  to  present  my  nephew,  Sally  —  Miss 
Norton,  of  New  Orleans,  you  know,  wdth  whom  I'm 
traveling.  How  lucky  you  happened  to  come  by! 
Why  did  n't  you  write  me  you  w^ere  up  here?" 

"I'm  very  glad  I  am  here,"  he  answered.  "Your 
tires  gone?  Better  get  into  my  car  and  I'll  send 
someone  back  from  Allston  to  bring  along  your  car 
and  the  chauffeur.  We'll  make  Windermere  to- 
night without  any  trouble  at  all.  May  I  help  you 
out,  Miss  Norton?" 

"You  certainly  are  the  deus  ex  machina"  said 
Sally  to  him  as  they  rushed  on  through  the  night, 
down  the  long  heather-covered  stretches  of  hill. 
"I  admire  Mrs.  Carton's  taste  in  nephews." 

"Aunt  Ruth,"  he  said  solemnly,  glancing  back 
at  the  long-dormant  figure  in  the  tonneau  —  "Aunt 
Ruth  is  the  most  capable  woman  I  know.  She 
does  n't  belong  in  the  twentieth  century,  Miss  Nor- 
ton. Her  field  of  action  should  have  been  medieval 
Italy,  and  yet  she  comes  from  Boston!" 

"Poor  Mrs.  Carton!" 

He  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"I've  heard  of  your  engagement.  Miss  Norton. 
Allow  me  to  offer  my  congratulations.  I'm  glad 
you're  engaged,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so. 
You  can  have  ripping  good  times  with  engaged  girls 
—  such  a  perfect  understanding,  don't  you  know. 
So  I  think  our  three  or  four  days  at  Windermere  — 
before  I  go  up  to  Scotland  and  you  to  the  west  ca- 
thedrals—well, I  think  they'll  go  very  pleasantly 
for  me." 

He  was  a  boyish-looking  giant,  and  Sally  had  felt 

238 


tenderly    toward    boys    from    her    dancing-school 
days. 

"I've  not  been  engaged  long,"  she  admitted, 
"  and  I  have  n't  seen  Sir  Robert  since  three  months 
before  it  happened.  Telegrams  and  letters  are 
very  convenient  nowadays  —  when  the  man  's  in 
Smtzerland  on  business  and  the  girl's  in  England 
on  a  motor-car.  So  I'm  apt  to  forget  it  sometimes. 
In  which  case,"  she  finished  hurriedly,  "a  flaw  is 
likely  to  occur  in  even  a  —  perfect  understanding. 
Mrs.  Carton,  wake  up  —  quick  —  and  join  in  the 
conversation,  and  don't  be  a  female  dormouse  if 
you  possibly  can  avoid  it!" 

"These  five  days  have  meant  a  lot  to  me,"  he 
said  after  a  pause. 

"I  hope  my  childish  antics  have  succeeded  in 
amusing  you.  I  have  to  make  the  most  of  my  op- 
portunities, you  know.  Staid,  married  ladies  have 
to  limit  themselves  somewhat  —  even  in  their  desire 
to  see  others  happy." 

"I've  been  an  ass!"  he  said  savagely.  "I  knew 
I  ought  to  go  away  three  days  ago,  after  w^e'd  been 
out  rowing  on  the  lake  in  the  moonlight.  But  — 
I  could  n't  —  I  simply  could  n't.     And  now  —  " 

"And  now?"  whispered  Sally.  Then  —  ''Oh,  do 
be  careful!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  cruel  man,  look 
where  you're  going,  don't  look  at  me!  Why  you 
nearly  fricasseed  that  innocent  chicken!" 

"I  can't  say  what  I  want  to  say  when  I'm  driv- 
ing a  car,"  he  answered.  "And  perhaps  it's  all  for 
the  best,"  he  added,  -^dth  a  queer  little  laugh. 

"And  so  you  felt  that  if  conditions  remained  un- 
changed you  would  have  to  leave?"  she  asked  with- 
out turning  her  head. 

"Yes." 

Sally  gazed  at  the  quaint  little  houses  of  Winder- 
mere. One  gabled  roof  seemed  to  fascinate  her 
completely. 

239 


'*  You  were  n't  the  only  one  who  thought  so  and 
—  did  n't  leave,"  she  slowly  said. 

''Miss  Norton  — Sally!" 

"Here  we  are  at  the  post  office.  Please  stop,  I 
have  an  errand.  You  needn't  come  back,  I'm 
going  to  walk  up  to  the  hotel  by  myself." 

An  hour  later  Bennett  came  up  on  the  veranda  of 
the  Belvoir.  Mrs.  Carton  was  sitting  placidly  in  a 
big,  cushioned  chair,  gazing  down  among  the  trees 
and  flowers  to  the  lake  which  twined  its  silver  way 
among  the  low  encircling  hills.  Her  knitting  lay 
in  her  lap. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  she  commanded.  "I 
haven't  seen  you  by  yourself  since  you've  been 
here.  You've  neglected  me  shamefully.  Now 
let's  have  a  good  long  chat." 

"I  don't  want  to  chat."    But  he  sat  down. 

"You'd  better.    We're  going  this  afternoon." 

"Going?" 

"Yes,  Sally  wants  to.  But—"  Here  Mrs.  Car- 
ton took  up  her  knitting. 

"But  what?" 

"Sally  sent  a  telegram  this  morning  on  her  way 
home  with  you.  And  it's  to  Switzerland  —  Well, 
what's  the  matter  now?" 

"Where  is  she?    Quick!" 

"What  about  our  good  long  chat?  Of  all  the  un- 
grateful nephews!  But  I'm  an  old  woman  and  I 
suppose  I  must  retire,  unwept,  unmourned,  to  the 
closet-shelf."  Then  she  added  in  resigned  tones: 
"I  think,  young  man,  you  will  find  her  by  the  sun- 
dial at  the  bottom  of  the  garden." 

E.  B.  Sheldon,  'o8. 


240 


"POVERTY  IS  NO  SIN,  BUT  TWICE  AS  BAD" 

{Russian  Proverb) 

Katerine  Ivanovna  sat  on  a  rude  bench  at  the 
door  of  her  hut,  a  miserable  affair  built  of  sun- 
baked bricks;  at  its  back,  and  supporting  it,  the 
north  wall  of  the  Samtavro  Monastery.  Her  arms 
hung  loosely  at  her  sides,  and  the  hands,  palms  out- 
ward, in  an  attitude  of  despair,  beat  restlessly 
against  her  skirt.  In  front  of  her  the  somber  valley 
of  the  Arag\^a  cut  its  way  back  through  the  darkling 
foothills  until  it  was  lost  at  the  base  of  Kasbek,  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  frosty  Caucasus.  Below  her  at 
the  left  lay  Mtsket,  the  ancient  capital  of  Georgia, 
its  hideous  dilapidation  shrouded  in  the  kindly  Uyi- 
light.  Katerine  looked  beyond  it  all  to  the  glitter- 
ing dome  of  the  mountain.  But  her  eyes,  seeing, 
saw  not.  In  mind  and  body  she  was  too  weary  to 
care  either  for  the  ugliness  or  the  glory  of  the  world. 
Her  hands  beat  ceaselessly.  Occasionally  her  head 
dropped  forward  only  to  be  lifted  again,  slowly, 
painfully.  Once  or  twice  she  sighed.  As  she  sat 
there  the  darkness  grew  deeper  over  the  foothills; 
the  pearl  white  of  Kasbek  flushed  to  rose.  But  day 
or  night  mattered  not  to  the  woman  sitting  on  her 
rude,  wooden  bench. 

Katerine  was  not  even  thinking,  except  as  un- 
bidden pictures  moved  across  her  mind.  And  only 
one  picture  occurred  again  and  again,  the  one  of  all 
that  she  most  wanted  to  forget.  She  saw  a  long  line 
of  flat  rocks  flanking  the  edge  of  the  river,  on  each  a 
woman  kneeling,  herself  among  the  number.  All 
were  swishing  their  pieces  of  linen  ceaselessly  back 
and  forth  in  the  blue-white  river  water,  or  pounding 
them  with  stones  to  dry  them.  She  heard  the  shrill 
chatter  of  those  who  still  had  strength  to  talk,  and 
noted  the  hopeless  faces  of  the  others,  those  whom 
toil  and  misery  had  crushed  into  silence.  Her  own 
face  was  one  of  these.    The  sun  beat  pitilessly  on  all 

241 


the  drooping  figures.  Occasionally  a  harsh  call 
or  the  cries  of  children  came  down  to  them  from  the 
half-deserted  city. 

Then,  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  this  picture  of  the 
day's  toil,  the  pitiless  toil  that  marked  all  the  gray 
days  of  the  past  since  her  father  died,  and  of  the 
future  until  Vladimir  should  come  or  death  merci- 
fully come  to  deliver  her,  this  picture  faded  unbidden 
and  in  its  place  she  saw  her  soldier  lover.  For  the 
first  time  a  faint  smile  played  over  her  drawn  mouth 
and  she  closed  her  eyes  the  better  to  see  her  picture, 
A  happy  face  was  his,  true  Russian  with  its  ruddy 
color  and  clear  blue  eyes,  its  northern  stolidity 
softened  by  a  life  in  the  warm  Caucasian  sunshine. 
Katerine  almost  laughed  with  pleasure  as  she  noted 
in  her  picture  the  scarlet  epaulets  lying  gallantly 
on  the  broad  shoulders  of  his  white  blouse.  The 
vision  was  so  still  and  clear  that  she  held  out  her 
swollen  hands  to  it  and  called  softly  "Vladimir." 
But  then  a  new  face  appeared,  that  of  an  old  man, 
the  village  priest  whom,  as  a  girl,  she  had  loved 
next  to  her  own  father.  There  was  now  no  kindly 
expression  in  his  eyes;  he  did  not  join  their  hands  as 
he  had  used  to  do  and  say  ''Saint  Vladimir  and 
Saint  Katerine  bless  my  two  dear  children."  In- 
stead he  caught  his  son  by  the  shoulder  and  pulled 
him  roughly  away  from  her,  his  eyes  glittering  with 
cruelty  and  greed.  Katerine  forgot  that  what  she 
saw  was  only  a  vision  and  jumped  forward,  hands 
outstretched,  to  stop  him.  Then  she  remembered 
and  opened  her  eyes  on  a  world  that  was  almost 
dark.  Only  Kasbek  stood  pale  and  clear  against  the 
sky.  She  stood  a  moment,  hands  still  outstretched 
as  though  in  supplication  to  the  mountain,  her  friend. 
Then  she  turned  wearily  and  groped  her  way,  stumb- 
ling into  the  hut. 

Inside  she  lighted  a  piece  of  tallow  candle  and 
set  it  on  the  table.  She  looked  for  a  moment  at  the 
hearth  with  its  black  kettle  hanging  from  an  iron 

242 


spike  at  the  side,  but  the  fire  was  out,  and  shaking 

her  head  wearily,  she  turned  away  and  drew  from 

the  cupboard  a  half  loaf  of  black  bread.    Then  she 

threw  herself  on  a  great  bed  at  one  end  of  the  room 

and  began  mechanically  to  break  and  swallow  the 

hard  bread.    For  some  time  she  lay  there,  her  eyes 

wandering  aimlessly  over  the  bare  walls  of  the  room. 

The  dreariness  without  had  driven  her  in,  but  the 

desolation  and  silence  and  utter  loneliness  within 

bade  fair  to  drive  her  out  again  where  at  least  she 

might  have  God's  bright  stars  for  company.     She 

put  her  arm  about  the  carved  post  of  the  bed  and 

patted  it  lovingly.    It  at  least  was  an  old  friend,  the 

only  one  she  had  kept  in  that  dreadful  day  so  many 

months  ago.     She  remembered  it  all  so  vividly; 

how  she  had  heard  unusual  noise  in  the  street  and 

had  peered  fearfully  through  the  curtains  of  her  own 

dainty  room;   then  how  she  had  thrown  herself  on 

her  father's  body,  how  they  had  dragged  her  away  and 

told  her  that  he  had  fallen  dead  on  change  in  Tiflis 

when  the  scheme  in  which  he  had  madly  ventured 

had  fallen  through.    The  Jews  had  it  all  now.    The 

Jews  and  Armenians.     The  fair  house  in  Mtsket, 

the  old  pictures,  the  sacred  eikons,  the  linen  and  the 

silver,  all  were  sold,  and  she,  Katerine,  the  heiress, 

lived  in  a  hut  under  the  monastery  walls  and  washed 

clothes  in  the  river  to  earn  her  crust  of  bread.    She 

laid  her  cheek  against  the  bedpost  and  thanked  God 

for  the  one  kindly  Jew  who  had  paid  the  price  and 

let  her  keep  it.    The  Armenians  had  wanted  to  take 

it  again  and  sell  it. 

Many  had  been  the  times  —  today  another  — 
when  she  had  wanted  to  end  it  all,  when  the  jeers 
had  been  unbearable,  when  her  destitution  seemed 
worse  than  the  grave.  But  she  was  young  and 
strong,  she  loved,  and  the  undefined  fear  of  death 
was  always  at  last  more  terrible  than  the  definite 
fear  of  life.  Today  she  had  heard  news  that  filled 
her  cup  of  happiness  to  the  brim  —  Vladimir,  her 

243 


soldier  lover,  was  coming  home  —  and  then,  when 
trembling  she  had  raised  the  cup  to  drink  new  joy 
into  her  shriveled  veins,  a  childhood  friend  had 
dashed  it  from  her. 

'*So,  heiress  of  dreams,"  she  had  cried,  meeting 
her  on  the  street,  ''your  faithful  lover  wanted  your 
money,  not  you,  and  comes  home  to  marry  the 
rich  Georgian  woman." 

The  silence  of  the  night  was  accentuated  by  the 
ceaseless  roar  of  the  river.  Again  Katerine  saw  the 
toiling  line  of  washerwomen.  She  sat  up  in  an 
agony  of  misery.  ''Why  must  I  see  always  this 
work  ahead  of  me,  work  stretching  into  the  years 
when  I  shall  be  bent  and  twisted  and  have  to  beg 
my  bread  like  ragged  Anna  from  door  to  door? 
Why  now,  when  Vladimir  is  coming,  must  I  think 
only  of  work?  Will  he  marry  the  Georgian  after  all?  " 
Her  thoughts  reeled.  She  cried  aloud,  tearing  at  her 
blanket.  "  No,  no,  no !  Is  not  a  Russian  better  than 
a  thousand  Georgians?  Is  he  not  pledged  to  me? 
Am  I  not  fairer?" 

She  caught  sight  of  her  coarsened  hands,  cracked 
and  blistered  with  the  washing  and  the  sun.  Chat- 
tering incoherently  she  wrapped  them  in  the  blanket 
to  hide  them  from  her  own  frightened  view;  then, 
fascinated,  and  shrieking  with  mad  laughter,  she 
waved  them  before  her  eyes.  Why  had  he  not  come? 
Her  thoughts  rushed  on,  confused,  tumultuous. 
The  train  from  Batum  was  in  hours  ago  —  years, 
perhaps.  The  marriage  papers  with  the  rich 
Georgian  were  being  drawn  while  she  lay  impotent 
and  poor,  miserably  poor.  Was  there  no  justice? 
Before  God  and  the  Tsar,  was  there  no  mercy? 
She  struggled  to  her  feet  and  began  to  search  the 
room  —  for  what  she  knew  not  clearly,  for  some- 
thing to  protect  herself  with,  to  avenge  herself. 
She  passed  her  hands  over  the  bare  walls,  and 
through  the  empty  cupboard.  She  felt  over  the 
table  and  knocked  the  candle  to  the  floor.     The 

244 


darkness  frenzied  her.  She  fell  and  lay  groveling, 
mumbling  to  herself,  and  clawing  at  the  rough 
boards. 

Then  the  door  opened.  A  man  stood  framed  in 
the  pale  night  light. 

"Katerine  Ivano'vTia,"  a  voice  said,  "are  you 
here?" 

She  was  clutching  the  leg  of  the  table  and  stared 
only  half  comprehending  at  the  figure. 

''Katerine  Ivano\Tia,"  the  voice  repeated. 

Then  she  found  words.  "Vladunir  Petrovich," 
she  said,  ''you  are  welcome." 

With  a  joyous  cry  the  man  stepped  into  the  room, 
but  stumbled  against  the  table.  "Light,"  he  cried. 
"This  is  a  strange  welcome,  Katerine." 

"Your  visit  was  unexpected,"  she  answered.  "I 
was  about  to  go  to  bed."  She  thought  of  the  bare- 
ness, of  her  tattered  dress  and  torn  hands. 

"Aren't  you  glad  that  I  have  come?"  he  ques- 
tioned. "Have  you  forgotten  me,  Katerine,  our 
childhood  love?" 

"Does  the  earth  forget  the  sun?"  she  cried. 
"Do  the  rivers  forget  their  sources?  I  long  for  you 
as  the  seed  longs  for  the  rain  in  the  spring,  Vladi- 
mir, if"  — her  voice  faltered  — "if  you  return,  as 
you  went." 

"Surely  I  return  as  I  went,"  he  cried.  "A  man 
does  not  change  so  much  in  two  years.  I  am  older. 
I  have  seen  the  world,  men  and  women.  Why 
should  that  make  any  difference  in  our  love? '' 

"It  should  not,  dear.  I  wondered  only  if  you 
loved  me  still.  You  have  seen  beautiful  women, 
rich  women.  Am  I  still  the  one  woman,  I,  poor  and 
miserable  —  and  ugly?  And  then,  they  told  me 
things  of  you." 

''What  did  they  tell  you,  Katerine?    I  did  not 

love  your  money.    A  boy  and  girl  together  do  not 

think  of  money.    You  are  miserable.    I  am  here  to 

'  make  you  happy.    You  are  not  ugly,  for  you  are 

245 


young  and  a  Russian.    Is  that  why  you  fear  the 
light?'' 

''Yes,  dear,  yes,"  she  cried  piteously.  ''I  am 
afraid.  They  have  mocked  me  and  cursed  me  and 
struck  me.  The  sun  and  the  water  and  the  work 
have  burned  and  bent  me.  At  first  I  was  brave  — 
for  you.  But  later  —  the  tim.e  was  so  long  —  and  it 
is  so  hard  to  be  pretty  in  rags." 

He  growled  angrily  as  a  wild  animal  growls  in 
defense  of  its  mate.  He  struck  a  match  and  held  it 
up.  Katerine  held  her  hands  before  her  face,  then 
suddenly  remembered  how  red  they  were  and 
dropped  them.  While  the  match  lasted  they  faced 
each  other.  In  her  excitement  and  unconscious  de- 
fiance the  blood  fiamed  in  the  woman's  cheeks  and 
her  eyes  glittered.  She  saw  the  same  handsome, 
boyish  face  and  forgot  the  years  and  her  own 
wretchedness.  Then  the  light  fell  and  Vladimir 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  "You  are  more  beautiful 
than  ever,"  he  whispered. 

She  laughed  softly,  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder. 
"Now  we  will  have  a  light,"  she  said.  "Now  I  am 
not  afraid.    The  candle  is  under  the  table.    It  fell." 

He  groped  in  the  darkness,  found  the  candle  and 
lighted  it.  Then  the  two  sat  down  together  on  the 
edge  of  the  great  bed  smiling  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"You  are  the  same,"  she  said  softly.  "And  all 
the  waiting  and  sorrow  and  pain  is  over."  She  laid 
a  hand  in  one  of  his.  He  took  it  up  and  kissed  it, 
but  Katerine  winced  as  she  saw  that  he  noticed  how 
led  and  swollen  it  was.  "I  have  worked  so  hard," 
she  said  apologetically. 

"  I  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  know.  The  beautiful 
hand  that  was  once  so  soft  and  white."  He  kissed 
it  again,  but  very  lightly,  almost  coldly,  it  seemed  to 
her.    Then  he  put  it  back  in  her  lap. 

"You  do  not  like  my  hands  because  they  are 
blistered  with  the  washmg?"  she  questioned 
timidly. 

246 


"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  and  laughed,  but  she  noticed 
that  he  did  not  look  at  them  again. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

''Tell  me  about  your  travels,"  she  said  wistfully. 
''Father  was  going  to  take  me  to  Rostov,  and  Mos- 
cow, and  Petersburg.  But  he  died,  and  now  I  do 
not  even  go  to  Tiflis." 

"Lly  travels  are  not  interesting,"  he  answered 
shortly.  "Just  the  usual  soldier's  life  in  barracks 
at  Yalta  and  Sevastopol.  Why  don't  you  go  to 
Tiflis?" 

There  was  a  sharpness  in  the  question  that 
startled  her.  "I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  "I 
have  no  money  for  the  train.  It  is  too  far  to  walk. 
And  then  I  don't  want  to  go.  The  silver- workers 
would  not  show  me  their  buckles  any  more  —  they 
are  Armenians  you  know,  and  father  owed  them 
money  —  and  the  police  would  turn  me  from  the 
shops  because  I  am  ragged  and  they  would  think  I 
was  there  to  steal.  And  then  people  used  to  know 
me  in  Tiflis,  and  Madame  Richter  at  the  Hotel  de 
Londres  always  saved  hei  best  chicken  for  me  and 
gave  me  he^  sweetest  wine  —  but  now  —  "  She  shiv- 
ered and  drew  closei.  "You  are  not  listening, 
Vladimir.  Are  you  sad?  You  do  not  speak  to  me. 
Let  us  rather  talk  of  happy  things.  Will  our  wedding 
be  soon?"  She  got  up  and  drew  a  box  from  under 
the  bed.  "See,"  she  went  on,  opening  it,  "I  have 
still  a  pretty  dress,  white,  w^th  red  Circassian  em- 
broidery. And  I  saved  all  my  kopecks  to  get  a 
bridal  crown.  I  only  bought  it  yesterday.  Is  n't  it 
beautiful?"  She  laid  the  gay  headdress  on  his 
knees  and  leaned  back  to  watch  his  pleasure. 

But  Vladimir  tossed  the  crowTi  aside  and  stood 
up  suddenly.  Katerine  watched  him  with  frightened 
eyes,  all  the  joy  draining  away  from  her  face. 

"We  can't  be  married  now,"  he  said  hoarsely;  "at 
least  not  right  away.  I  may  be  drafted  for  this  new 
war  in  the  East.    I  have  no  work  and  your  money 

247 


is  gone.  We  must  wait,  girl.  You  love  me  and  I 
love  you,  but  we  must  wait." 

"Your  father  will  marry  us,"  she  continued  dully 
as  though  she  had  not  heard.  "And  then  we  will 
live  in  the  little  house  by  the  Cathedral,  and — " 

"I  tell  you,  Katerine,  it  is  impossible,"  he  broke 
in.    "We  must  not  ruin  our  lives." 

"Ruin  our  lives."  She  echoed  the  words,  hardly 
comprehending  the  thought.  Then  she  laughed 
shrilly  and  in  bitter  mockery.  "Ruin  our  lives! 
Oh!  What  is  there  to  ruin  —  for  me?"  Again  she 
laughed,  then  went  on  suddenly.  "Is  it  my  hands? 
They  are  not  white  any  more,  but  it  was  all  for  you, 
Vladimir,  all  to  save  money  for  the  bridal  crown. 
And  they  will  grow  white  again,  indeed  they  will, 
dear." 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  he  cried.  "Poverty  is  al- 
ways rough-handed.  And  are  you  not  poor?"  He 
glanced  contemptuously  over  the  bare  walls. 

She  cowered  before  him,  her  body  cringing  as 
though  expecting  a  blow.  They  stared  at  each  other, 
Katerine  only  piteous  now,  Vladimir  defiant  but 
w^avering  between  his  love  for  her  and  his  fear  of 
poverty. 

Without  warning,  the  door  burst  open  and  the 
village  priest  strode  into  the  room.  He  looked 
sharply  at  them,  then  bowed  low  and  crossed  him- 
self before  the  holy  eikon.  "You  here?"  he  said 
sternly  to  his  son.  "  I  was  searching  for  you."  Then 
to  Katerine,  "God  bless  you,  daughter."  He  seated 
himself  on  the  one  chair  of  the  room  and  motioned 
them  to  sit  before  him  on  the  bed. 

For  a  moment  there  was  breathless  silence. 
"You  kept  your  old  bed,  I  see,  Katerine,"  the  old 
man  said  at  last.  "It  was  said  that  your  father  fell 
into  the  hands  of  evil  men.  Do  you  miss  your  old 
home?" 

"I  work,"  she  answered. 

"I  know,  daughter,"  he  said.    "You  have  taken 

248 


up  the  struggle  of  life  bravely.  Many  would  have 
given  up  and  died  —  or  worse.  In  the  day  of  trouble 
you  remembered  my  teaching." 

"You  gave  me  no  help,"  she  said  bitterly.  "I 
worked  for  love  of  your  son." 

The  priest  winced.  Vladimir  listened  stolidly, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

''You  chose  to  live  far  from  the  town,"  the  old 
man  said  apologetically.  "The  hill  is  steep  for  my 
old  limbs  and  I  knew  you  had  the  holy  monks  to 
comfort  you  and  counsel  you.  The  parish  is  too 
poor  and  I  must  work  hard  to  collect  the  tithes  that 
I  may  live  and  lay  by  a  little  money  for  my  children. 
But  I  have  sorrowed  for  you,  daughter,  and  I  sor- 
row for  you  now  if  you  thought  my  son  could 
help  you.  He,  too,  is  poor  and  has  no  money  for 
you." 

"Money!"  she  cried.  "Money!  Am  I  a  beggar? 
I  wanted  sympathy,  just  one  word  of  comfort,  one 
little  word  from  a  friend  —  and  you  say  you  have 
no  money.  What  do  I  care  for  your  pitiful  earnings 
or  Vladimir's?  All  I  ask  of  him  is  love.  If  he  were 
the  general  in  Tiflis  I  should  not  ask  for  money. 
Will  it  cost  him  to  love  me  still?  When  we  were  chil- 
dren we  loved  and  we  promised  to  marry.  Am  I 
asking  for  his  money  or  yours  when  I  ask  him  to 
remember  his  promises?" 

"You  were  never  betrothed,  daughter,"  the  priest 
interposed.  "You  have  no  claim  on  my  son.  He  is 
poor.  He  is  a  soldier  of  God  and  the  Tsar.  He  shall 
not  ruin  his  life  nor  give  up  his  holy  calling  from  anj) 
mistaken  sense  of  duty  bound  up  in  childish  prom- 


ises." 


"I  do  not  ask  him  to  give  up  his  profession,"  she 
cried.  "I  only  ask  for  his  love  in  return  for  mine 
that  I  have  given  so  freely  —  and  would  you,  a 
priest  of  the  Church,  call  a  promise  less  sacred  be- 
cause not  made  before  a  crowd  of  smirking  wit 
nesses?    If  I  were  still  rich,  would  you  say  the  prom- 

249 


ise  was  not  binding?  No,  a  thousand  times  no! 
But  I  am  poor  and  you  are  greedy.  Forget  my  pov- 
erty and  think  for  once  of  the  happiness  of  your 
son.  I  will  work  for  him,  slave  for  him.  I  will  make 
his  home  the  happiest  in  Mtsket,  because  it  will  be  a 
house  of  love.  I  will  send  him  to  the  wars  with  a 
glad  heart,  braver  and  stronger  for  my  devotion. 
I  too  am  a  Russian,  and  I  love  my  Tsar  and  my 
country  and  my  God  as  he  does.  Remember  that, 
Father;  in  the  name  of  the  holy  saints,  remember 
that."  She  was  pleading  for  her  life  now,  but  her 
very  eagerness  hardened  the  priest's  heart. 

"You  mistake,"  he  said  harshly.  "The  call  has 
come  tonight  for  troops  in  the  Orient."  Vladimir 
straightened  and  Katerine  paled.  "My  son  must 
go  with  the  others,  and  if  you  love  him  would  you 
have  him  go,  poor,  unrespected,  in  his  old  uniform, 
his  pockets  empty?  Is  not  your  love  —  if  love  it  is 
—  big  enough  to  give  him  up  for  the  sake  of  his 
happiness  and  his  country?  Would  it  not  be  nobler 
to  give  him  to  another  who  will  send  him  away  with 
a  full  purse  and  a  heart  free  from  the  care  lest  his 
wife  at  home  suffer?" 

Katerine  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  menacingly 
before  the  old  priest,  her  eyes  flaming  in  her  drawn 
face.  "The  Georgian  woman!"  she  cried,  throwing 
out  her  arms.  "You,  a  Russian,  would  marry  your 
son  to  a  Georgian,  soulless,  rich  in  the  spoils  of  the 
poor,  famed  only  for  her  vicious  life,  at  heart  an 
enemy  to  Russia.  And  all  for  money !  Here  —  I 
have  saved  ten  rubles.  Let  him  take  them.  Sell 
my  bed,  my  bridal  crown,  my  dress,  all,  to  give  him 
money.  Only  give  him  to  me  and  save  him  from  the 
Georgian  woman.  Would  Vladimir  find  happiness 
in  the  rubles  of  such  a  one?  Is  her  faded  beauty  a 
recommendation  in  your  old  eyes?  Look  at  me. 
I  can  still  be  beautiful.  I  am  young.  I  can  give 
him  children  who  will  be  Russians  and  the  joy  of 
their  father.    He  loves  me,  too.    He  repeated  it  to- 

250 


night.  He  loves  me  —  and  married  to  another, 
would  not  the  thought  of  my  lonely  wretchedness,  of 
my  unloved  death,  add  misery  to  the  thought  of 
coming  home  to  a  wife  he  despised,  and  fawned  on 
for  her  money?" 

The  priest  put  out  his  hand  warningly,  but  she 
brushed  it  aside  in  the  violence  of  her  pleading. 
Then  she  fell  to  her  knees  and  clasped  the  old  man's 
hands.  ^'What  have  I  done?"  she  protested. 
"  What  crime  have  I  committed  that  you  treat  me  so? 
I  have  loved  him  with  a  love  that  will  raise  him  to 
be  the  glory  of  his  people.  I  am  poor  —  yes.  But 
is  poverty  a  crime?"  She  gazed  at  him  piteously, 
but  his  heart  was  hard. 

"It  is  no  crime,  child,"  he  said,  coldly,  ''but  it 
is  worse.  It  leads  to  degradation,  moral  and  physi- 
cal. It  fetters  him  who  would  climb,  and  drags 
doA\Ti  the  valiant  heart.  No  love  can  survive  the 
cruel  test  of  poverty." 

She  leaned  far  back,  her  hands  high  over  her  head. 
"You  lie!"  she  shrieked,  and  the  priest  started  to 
his  feet,  drawing  away  his  robe  as  though  he  feared 
pollution.  "  For  the  sake  of  money  you  lie  and  try 
to  make  your  son  a  liar.  Thank  God  for  the  day 
when  my  want  showed  you  as  you  are.  Thank  God, 
too,  that  Vladimir  loves  me  and  is  true." 

The  old  man  strode  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
*'You  have  cursed  the  Holy  Church  in  me,"  he 
said.  "The  curses  of  the  Church  descend  on  you  in 
turn.  May  you  fall  to  the  depths  of  vice  and  m.ay 
the  saints  mock  you.  Vladimir  is  a  man.  He  will 
not  be  turned  by  your  witch's  words." 

The  door  slammed.  Katerine  sank  to  the  floor, 
sobbing.  Vladimir  paced  back  and  forth  in  the  room. 
Katerine  grew  quieter  after  a  few  moments  and 
pulled  herself  up  to  her  knees.  She  watched  him 
silently  and  fearfully,  conscious  of  every  step  he 
took,  conscious  of  the  monotonous  roar  of  the  river, 
conscious  of  the  wind  whistling  through  the  cracks 

251 


of  the  hut,  and  yet  thinking  of  only  one  thing.  He 
was  still  with  her.    His  love  was  true. 

"You  should  not  have  spoken  harshly  to  my 
father,"  he  said  at  last.  **He  is  an  old  man  and  a 
priest." 

She  laughed.  **When  the  keystone  is  forced  from 
the  dam  does  the  water  stay  in  the  lake,  or  the  river 
dry  up  when  spring  melts  the  snow?  For  two  years 
I  have  lived,  forsaken  and  despised.  Your  father 
has  never  once  visited  me  or  even  sent  me  a  kind 
word.  Lonely,  lonely,  lonely,  I  have  crushed  my 
thoughts  and  waited  for  you.  And  now  at  last 
you  are  come.  Then  the  priest,  my  childhood  friend, 
your  father,  comes  to  me.  And  for  what?  To  bless 
me  in  my  joy?  To  kiss  my  cheek  in  token  of  the 
love  of  Christ?  No.  To  lure  away  my  lover,  to 
taunt  me  with  my  poverty.  Is  it  just?  Would  you 
have  restrained  yourself?  If  I  had  been  struck 
dead,  I  must  have  spoken  out." 

Vladimir  listened  distractedly.  When  she  stopped, 
gasping  for  breath,  he  repeated  obstinately,  "You 
should  not  have  spoken  harshly  to  my  father." 

Katerine  rose  slowly  to  her  feet  and  seized  his 
arm,  walking  up  and  down  with  him.  He  tried  to 
shake  her  off  but  she  clung  desperately. 

"I  was  wrong,"  she  pleaded.  "I  did  not  know 
what  I  said.  I  was  all  blazing  with  love  and  cold 
with  tenor.  I  just  trusted  wholly  in  you.  It  was  not 
too  deep  a  trust,  was  it,  dear?    You  do  love  me?" 

"Yes,  I  love  you,"  he  answered. 

She  gave  a  glad  cry.  "We  will  go  to  your  father 
and  I  will  tell  him  I  am  sorry.  And  then  you  will 
marry  me?  You  will  never  desert  me  for  the  Geor- 
gian?" 

He  stopped  in  his  walk.  "My  father  said  I  must 
think  of  my  country  and  my  Tsar  first." 

"But  I  too  am  a  Russian,"  she  cried.  "Love  and 
duty  shall  go  together." 

"He  said,"  Vladimir  continued,  "that  I  must  go 

252 


to  the  Orient.    I  cannot  go  penniless.    I  cannot  take 
your  money  and  leave  you  to  stance." 

"I  shall  not  starve,"  she  protested.  *'I  can  work 
and  work  happily  because  it  will  be  to  keep  me  safe 
for  you." 

'' Perhaps,"  he  went  on,  unheeding,  "perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  marry  the  Georgian  woman,  and 
for  me  she  will  help  you  while  I  am  gone.  I  will  ask 
her  as  a  marriage  favor." 

Katerine  recoiled,  pushing  him  away  from  her. 
"You  would  marry  her  and  ask  her  to  support  me," 
she  stammered.  "Your  father  made  my  poverty  a 
sin.  You  make  it  a  sport.  Better  far  to  be  cursed 
than  mocked.  Oh,  I  am  calm,  Vladimir,  because  my 
heart  is  dead.  And  this  is  the  end  of  it  all."  She 
smiled  faintly.  "See  how  my  poor  hands  are  torn 
because  I  kept  myself  pure  and  slaved  for  you.  And 
because  my  hands  are  thus  and  I  work  for  your  love 
instead  of  greeting  you  in  my  old,  silk-hung  parlor, 
you  make  a  sport  of  love.  If  I  had  sinned  the 
Church  would  have  forgiven,  and  you,  perhaps,  if  I 
had  come  to  you  v-ith  hands  full  of  gold.  But  my 
poverty  God  himself  cannot  forgive,  much  less  a 
poor,  weak  man.  Go  to  your  Georgian  woman, 
\ladimir.  Take  from  her  the  price  of  your  dis- 
honor and  my  destruction.  March  to  the  wars  in 
your  new  uniform,  and  when  you  are  fighting  for  your 
country,  your  Tsar,  and  your  God,  think  of  your 
foreign  -^ife  at  home,  cheating  the  poor  and  plotting 
against  the  fatherland,  and  think  of  me,  sometimes, 
starving,  hopeless  before  the  face  of  a  merciless  God, 
Go  now,  I  want  to  rest.    Good-bye." 

"Katerine,"  he  cried,  "you  do  not  understand." 

The  midnight  bells  in  the  monastery  pealed  out 
and  there  came  stealing  softly  the  sound  of  the 
monks  at  prayer:  "  God  have  mercy  upon  us.  God 
have  mercy  upon  us."  He  took  a  step  toward  her, 
but  she  shook  her  head  and  held  out  her  hands, 
motioning  him  away. 

253 


"  Go,"  she  repeated  brokenly.  "  Go." 
He  took  up  his  cap  and  stumbled  through  the  door. 
For  a  moment  Katerine  stood  there.  Then  her  hands 
dropped,  and  shivering,  she  crept  after  him.  She 
peered  out  into  the  empty  blackness  of  the  night. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  shrieked  his  name,  "Vladimir," 
but  her  voice  was  caught  by  the  wind  and  carried 
away.  The  sound  of  the  chanting  mingled  with  the 
rush  of  the  river.  Again  she  saw  the  old,  old  pic- 
ture, a  line  of  flat  rocks,  on  each  a  woman  kneeling 
and  swishing  her  linen  in  the  blue-white  river  water. 
Some  talked  shrilly;  others  were  silent,  crushed  by 
poverty  and  despair.    She  was  one  of  these. 

From  the  monastery  chapel  the  wind  caught  the 
last  chant  of  the  holy  monks:    "God  have  mercy 


upon  us." 


W.  R.  Castle,  jr.,  'oo. 


POPPIES 

Barbara  Brattle 
Philip  Castle 
Mary,  the  maid 

The  scene  is  a  parlor  in  the  Brattle  home.  Near  the 
window  Philip  is  standing  in  an  attitude  of  waiting. 
A  cluster  of  flowers  lies  on  a  rosewood  table  near  the 
door. 

Enter  Barbara, 

Barbara  {extending  her  hand).  —  Why,  Philip, 
good  afternoon.  I  am  so  glad  you  came.  {They 
shake  hands.) 

Philip.  —  Thank  you,  Barbara.  I  have  brought 
you  these  flowers.    {He  hands  the  flowers  to  her.) 

Barbara.  —  Flowers?  Oh,  how  thoughtful  of 
you.     {She  takes  them.) 

Philip.  —  Yes,  I  picked  them  myself. 

Barbara.  —  I  just  love  poppies. 

254 


Philip.  —  I  walked  hurriedly,  but  they  seem  to 
be  fading  already.    Poppies  wilt  so  soon. 

Barbara.  —  Oh,  they  will  be  as  fresh  as  ever 
presently.  {She  goes  to  the  table  near  the  window 
and  puts  the  poppies  in  a  vase.)    This  will  revive  them. 

Philip.  —  Oh,  yes,  they'll  revive;  but  I  want  to 
revive  something  else,  Barbara. 

Barbara.  —  Why,  what  can  you  mean? 

Philip.  —  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  I  was 
here  in  this  room,  and  the  conversation  we  had? 
I  want  to  revive  that. 

Barbara.  —  That's  ancient  history.  I  thought 
the  discussion  was  ended  then  —  the  last  time. 
I  told  you  the  thing  is  impossible,  impossible  to 
settle  now  —  unless  you  want  it  settled  definitely  and 
forever. 

Philip.  —  That 's  a  big  word,  Barbara. 

Barbara.  —  Do  you  want  me  to  say  no? 

Philip.  —  Never. 

Barbara.  —  Then  don't  make  me  say  anything. 

Philip,  —  Very  well,  we  are  to  go  on  talking  about 
everything  under  the  stars  except  ourselves. 

Barbara.  —  I'm  sure  we've  talked  about  our- 
selves on  several  occasions. 

Philip.  —  Begun  to,  you'd  better  say. 

Barbara  {stiffly).  —  Oh,  well!  I  suppose  my 
preferences  — 

Philip.  —  There,  there,  Barbara!  —  I  promise 
never  to  —  never  again ! 

Barbara.  —  Never? 

Philip.  —  Never. 

Barbaila..  —  Splendid!  Then  we  shall  be  friends, 
Philip;  just  perfect  friends.  You  will  enjoy  your- 
self much  more  then,  and  your  visits  will  be  ever  so 
interesting. 

Philip.  —  Very  well,  as  you  say.  .  .  .  What  shall 
we  friends  talk  about?  Jane  Addams,  or  Maude 
Adams,  or  H.  G.  Wells?  —  I  'm  up  on  all  of  those  sub- 
jects. 

255 


Barbara.  —  Poke  fun,  will  you,  Silly?  We'll 
talk  on  none  of  them,  but  about  yourself.  Tell  me 
what  courses  you  are  going  to  take  next  year.  Is 
that  horrid  zoology  to  continue? 

Philip.  —  No. 

Barbara.  —  Thank  goodness!  Perhaps  that  is  a 
necessary  subject,  but  it's  perfectly  demoralizing 
to  study  it.    It  makes  one  so  hard-hearted. 

Philip.  —  Have  you  been  studying  it? 

Barbara.  —  Certainly  not.  But  tell  me:  What 
is  your  program  for  next  year? 

Philip.  —  Nothing. 

Barbara.  —  Nothing?    What  can  you  mean? 

Philip. —  I'm  finishing  this  June.  I'm  getting 
through  college  this  year. 

Barbara.  —  Finishing?  —  This  year? 

Philip.  —  Yes.    I  made  it  in  three  years. 

Barbara.  —  You  never  mentioned  that  before. 
I  thought  you  'd  be  here  all  next  year. 

Philip.  —  I  get  out  in  June. 

Barbara.  —  Then  —  {She  is  musingly  silent  half 
a  minute.)  Why  —  {looking  up  suddenly)  Why, 
Philip,  you  have  scarcely  four  months! 

Philip.  —  Hardly  four  months.  Mighty  short 
time  for  this  Platonic  friendship. 

Barbara.  —  I  was  thinking  of  that.  .  .  .  Where 
are  you  going  to  live,  Philip? 

Philip. —  I  can't  decide.  It's  a  hard  thing  to 
settle.    Where  should  I  go? 

Barbara.  —  This  is  all  very  sudden.  We  had 
better  talk  it  over. 

Philip.  —  Yes,  perhaps  we  had  better. 

Barbara.  —  Have  you  decided  what  you  will  do? 

Philip.  —  Oh,  business  of  some  kind,  I  suppose. 
One  can't  settle  these  questions  hastily. 

Barbara.  —  We  had  better  talk  that  over  too. 

Philip.  —  I  might  get  a  job  in  my  uncle's  paper 
mill  at  East  Walpole. 

Barbara.  —  What  could  you  do  there? 

256 


Philip.  — Oh,  I'd  be  put  in  the  rag-picking  de- 
partment for  the  first  year,  and  in  the  second  year 
I'd  probably  be  promoted  to  the  pulp-house.  One 
has  to  learn  the  business  from  the  ground  up,  you 
know. 

Barbail\.  —  Oh,  don't  try  to  be  foolish.  The 
very  idea!  —  picking  rags  — 

Philip.  —  Well,  I  've  thought  of  remaining  in 
Boston.  My  uncle  will  give  me  a  chance  in  the 
bank,  perhaps. 

Barbara.  —  Oh,  not  Boston,  Philip!  There  is 
that  trying  Gordon  Gainsboro  here.  I  can't  endure 
the  same  atmosphere  that  he  moves  in. 

Philip. — Then  we'll  change  the  atmosphere. 
There's  New  York,  or  even  Chicago. 

Barbara.  —  Don't  decide  yet.  Let's  talk  it 
over. 

Enter  the  maid  bringing  a  cluster  of  carnations  which 
she  gives  to  Barbara. 

The  Maid.  —  They  were  to  be  delivered  to  you 
directly,  he  said. 

Barbara  (rising  and  taking  card  she  reads).  — 
"Mr.  Gordon  Gainsboro."  Why —  (to  maid)  is  he 
waiting? 

The  Maid.  —  No.    They  were  delivered. 

Barbara.  —  Very  well.  Put  his  carnations  some- 
where. 

Philip  (pointing  to  the  vase). — Look  there,  Bar- 
bara, the  poppies  are  wilted. 

Barbara  (turning  and  looking).  —  Dear  me,  what 
can  be  the  matter?  (She  goes  to  the  table  and  takes 
the  poppies  frofn  the  vase.)  Why,  Philip,  no  wonder! 
There  is  n't  a  drop  of  water  in  this  vase.  (The  maid 
hands  her  the  carnations  and  takes  the  dead  poppies. 
She  places  the  carnations  in  the  empty  vase.)  We  will 
let  the  carnations  fade  now.  (To  the  maid,  who  is 
going.)  Wait,  Mary;  I'll  take  the  poppies.  (She 
takes  them  and  the  maid  goes  out.) 

Philip.  —  Had  n't  we  better  go  out  in  the  garden? 

257 


Barbara.  —  To  talk  it  over? 
Philip.  —  Yes,  to  talk  it  over. 
Barbara.  —  Perhaps  we    had    better.      Shall   I 
take  these? 

Philip.  —  Oh,  the  poppies? 

Barbara.  —  The  poppies!    {They  go  out.) 

George  W.  Gray,  '12. 


TINTAGEL 

Queen  Iseult  sits  and  spins  her  idle  thread, 
Queen  Iseult  sings  in  the  land  where  she  was  wed, 

"Tintagel,  Tintagel,  how  moves  the  sullen  sea?" 
She  sees  the  sunset  sky  burn  crimson-red 
Beyond  the  barren  isle  where  she  was  bred, 

''When  will  my  wandering  love  come  back  to 
me?" 

Queen  Iseult  sits  and  spins  her  idle  thread, 
Queen  Iseult  sings  in  the  land  where  she  was  wed, 
''Sir  Tristram,  Sir  Tristram,  the  jealous  ocean 
frets!" 
The  sunset  sky  has  long  since  lost  its  red, 
But  who  is  there  to  tell  her  he  is  dead. 
Sir  Tristram  tangled  in  Tintagel's  nets? 

D.  MacVeagh,  '13. 


THE  PLAYER 

O  MOCK  me  not  with  winsome  smiles; 
In  vain,  in  vain  your  haughtiness; 

Old-fashioned  girl,  I  scorn  your  wiles, 
For  they  are  but  caprice,  I  guess  — 
Yes,  they  are  but  your  part.  Queen  Bess. 

258 


When  you  were  but  a  romping  girl 
And  I  a  boy  who  called  you  "Queen," 

We  lived  a  dancing,  giddy  whirl 
In  dreamy  regions  never  seen  — 
And  I  was  king  and  you  were  queen. 

Long  sped,  fast  fled,  and  far  behind: 
I  do  not  know,  for  long  unrest, 

How  dreams  of  you  have  led  me  blind 

Through  this  swiit  world  of  swifter  quest  — 
But  dreams  were  good  —  ah,  they  are  best. 

Yes,  they  are  best,  are  best,  my  heart; 

And  you  will  count  them  good,  Queen  Bess, 

When  life  is  tired  wdth  playing  a  part. 
And  sorrow  waits,  and  restlessness 
Of  nights  and  days  and  you,  Queen  Bess! 
George  W.  Gray,  '12. 


OLD  LOVE  OR  NEW? 

Old  love  or  new?  —  Old  love  or  new? 

The  spring  clear-skied  and  blossom  clad, 

The  autumn  melancholy  sad; 
Which  is  the  fairer  of  the  two? 


Old  love  or  new  —  which  of  the  two? 
The  sensitive  hot  love  of  youth 
And  touch  of  lips !    Ah  what,  in  truth, 

Remains  of  lo^^e  when  this  is  through? 

Sweetheart,  trembling  is  thy  hand; 

Thy  cheek  is  closer  pressed  to  mine. 

Think'st  thou  the  years  true  love  confine, 
Time  or  the  running  of  the  sand? 

259 


Young  hearts  shall  dream,  old  hearts  recall, 
Though  youth  in  pageants  of  romance 
Seek  love  and  win  at  point  of  lance, 

Old  s>Tnpathies  shall  outlive  all. 

Old  sympathies  —  old  smiles  and  tears. 
The  past  and  all  its  memories 
That  strike  the  soul's  deep  harmonies ! 

Old  love,  it  knoweth  not  the  years! 

Old  love  or  new?  —  Which,  sweetheart,  say 
Is  truer  love?    Spare,  dear,  thy  fears. 
Our  love  shall  deepen  with  the  years 

As  shadows  with  the  close  of  day. 

J.  Hinckley,  'o6. 


SONNET 

I  RODE,  a  stranger  in  a  distant  land. 
And  watched  the  melting  of  a  prospect  rare 
In  wondrous  loveliness:  and  none  was  there 

Of  my  own  tongue  my  thoughts  to  understand. 

The  tender  beauty  of  a  sunlit  strand 

Slipped  by  the  window,  many  hillsides  fair 
Of  terraced  vineyards;  now  we  shot  in  air 

Above  a  river  like  a  pearly  band. 

Across  the  way  another  sat  —  but  we 

Were  not  of  kindred  speech;  at  length  he  sought 

My  gaze;  our  eyes  met  for  a  fleeting  while. 

To  both  of  us  a  sudden  sympathy 

In  all  our  feelings  left  unsaid  was  brought  — 

The  world-wide  understanding  of  a  smile. 

P.  W.  Thayer,  '14. 
260 


THE  BURMESE  SCULPTOR 

Under  a  bamboo  thatch,  in  leafy  shade  — 
*T  is  very  hot  without  —  he  toils  away, 
With  ringing  cut  and  mallet's  rhythmic  play, 

And  a  smoke  of  powdered  marble  round  him  sprayed. 

Clinkety-clink  the  biting  chisel  goes  — 

The  work  is  nearly  done,  save  for  the  face; 
Pressing  his  lips,  the  sculptor  leans  to  trace 

The  smiling  mouth,  -vvdde  eyes,  and  faultless  nose. 

Silent  and  placid,  now,  the  thing  must  squat 

Like  a  marble  cobbler,  peaceful  and  at  ease  — 
Nay,  I  would  swear  the  fellow  's  going  to  nod! 

When,  flinging  aside  his  chisel,  reeking  hot, 

Sudden  the  sculptor  falls  upon  prone  knees 
In  babbling  prayer  —  the  image  is  his  god! 

Conrad  Aiken,  'ii. 


FRIENDS 

Strong  though  the  wind  may  blow, 

He  will  not  break  or  bend. 
Stronger  than  all,  I  know 

He  is  my  friend. 
Dark  is  the  slander  and  grim, 

Cunningly  shaped  and  planned; 
Yet  I  can  tell  it  to  him  — 

He  '11  understand. 

H.   NiCKERSON,  *II. 


DAWN  IN  THE  CITY 

The  long,  long  streets  are  desolate  and  blank, 
The  river-wharves  beyond  loom  bleak  and  gray, 
Through  chilly  vistas  shining  far  away 

With  blinded  windows  the  "  Orphans'  Savings  Bank'* 
Catches  the  first  faint  ray 

261 


Shot  from  the  cloudy  dawn,  windy  and  breaking 
Along  the  east,  along  the  abandoned  goal; 
Far  up  the  river  the  solemn  whistles  roll 

As  if  the  souls  of  men  from  dreams  awaking 
Cried  out  to  the  world's  soul, 

As  if  the  hearts  of  men  cried  out  to  man, 
Here  in  this  breathless  moment  one  at  last, 
In  the  deep  terror  before  the  dawn  has  passed 

One  soul,  sad  and  alone,  under  the  span 
Of  the  terrible,  starless  vast. 

And  now  in  the  strange  fear  before  the  day 

The  unsuccessful  harlot's  tired  feet 

Echo,  strangely  vehement,  down  the  dumb  street, 
The  sounds  of  drunken  laughter,  pathetically  gay, 

Reecho  and  retreat 

Between  the  deserted  rows  of  gaunt,  gray  houses. 
And  all  the  world  is  stiller  than  the  tomb, 
Only  a  shutter  there  in  that  darkened  room 

Opens,  the  first,  white  ray  of  morning  rouses 
The  walls  out  of  their  gloom, 

Showing  a  few  soiled  chairs  and  a  faded  picture. 
The  corner  saloon  in  the  first  chill  of  night 
Stands   out,  garish   and  wind-blown,  cold  and 
bright. 

The  arc-light  swinging  from  the  black,  iron  fixture 
Pales  in  the  growing  light. 

And  all  the  morning  in  my  spiiit,  too. 
Shines  like  a  fiery  sunrise,  or  a  cloud 
Shot  through  with  day,  as  from  a  shattered  shroud. 

My  soul  with  the  white  dawn  shot  through  and 
through. 
Rises,  singing  aloud. 

262 


Till  the  new  love  within  me,  surging  and  mad, 
Yearns  toward  all  human  things  that  here  draw 

breath, 
The  dawn  and  the  gray  city  underneath. 

So  sordid,  so  ridiculously  sad. 
But  grave  with  love  and  death. 

John  Hall  Wheelock,  'o8. 

HUMANITIES 

Many  things  are  deep  and  high 
That  have  no  word  for  such  as  I: 
Thoughts  as  strong  as  strong  gods  are 
Spring  the  way  from  star  to  star. 

Would  you  have  my  love  thus,  even 
Big  as  earth  and  big  with  heaven  — 
So  forgetting  the  sweet  days 
We  've  played  at  loving,  different  ways? 

What  have  gods  and  stars  to  do 
With  You  love  me  and  /  love  you  ? 
Many  things  are  deep  and  high 
That  have  no  word  for  such  as  I. 

Van  Wyck  Brooks,  'o8. 

VISTAS 

Beyond  the  dark,  -wide  sea  be  the  enchanted  isles, 
Beyond  the  long  horizon  music  calls  me  — 

I  see  it  in  the  sadness  and  smiling  of  your  eyes, 
I  hear  it  in  the  far-off  rustling  of  the  sea. 

0  sweet  lands  lost  at  birth,  that  we  shall  never  find ! 

0  glad  life  passing  by,  and  things  that  cannot  be  1 

1  see  it  in  the  sadness  and  smiling  of  your  eyes, 

1  hear  it  in  the  far-off  rustling  of  the  sea. 

John  Hall  Wheelock,  'o8. 
263 


A  THOUGHT 

Even  though  I  love  you  dearly, 
Yet  I  sign  myself  sincerely ; 
If  you  are  an  old  friend  merely 
Still  the  letter  ends  sincerely; 
Or,  perhaps,  my  arch-foe  —  nearly, 
Yet  my  notes  are  signed  sincerely. 

Strange  why  people  act  so  queerly 
With  their  dear  and  yours  sincerely! 
Though  Heav'n  knows  I  love  you  dearly. 
Believe  me  ever,  Yours  sincerely. 

F.  B.  Thwing. 


IBI  REQUIESCAT 

The  heat,  the  strife,  the  weariness  of  day, 
A  long-drawn  hush,  the  evening-song,  the  bell; 
A  moment's  pain  —  the  quick  relief  of  tears, 
A  moment's  vision  of  the  grave,  the  sod; 
A  soul  upon  its  unseen,  starlit  way 
Where  cloud-shapes  in  the  vast  stand  sentinel. 
And  then  thou  liest,  comrade  of  the  years. 
Faint,  trembling  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 

F.  B.  Thwing. 


WITHOUT  RHYME 

She  's  as  fair  as  she  is  fickle. 

Is  my  Lady, 
And  she 's  very,  very  fickle. 

Is  my  Lady. 
Yet  at  heart  I  cannot  blame  her, 
For  of  suitors  she  's  a-plenty, 
And  they  one  and  all  adore  her, 
For  she's  fair,  as  she  is  fickle, 

Is  my  Lady. 
264 


There  is  tall  and  pensive  Harry, 
And  there 's  fat  and  jolly  Jack, 
And  there's  I,  the  least  of  any, 
And  the  least  of  any  to  her. 
But  ne'er  the  less  I  love  her, 
For  she's  fair,  though  she  is  fickle  — 
And  she's  ver}^,  very  fickle, 
Is  my  Lady, 

T.  J.  Putnam,  '15. 

THE  KENTISH  SAILOR 

While  year  by  year  the  seas  he  plies 

On  constant  business  bent, 
And  never  a  month  but  he  descries 

The  Severn  or  the  Trent, 
There  follow  hun  in  changing  guise 

Old  memories  of  Kent. 

WTien  the  buoy's  moans  are  in  his  ears, 

The  breaking  waves  in  sight. 
And  round  the  Goodwin  Sands  he  steers, 

And  heeds  the  warning  light, 
A  sound  upon  the  ^ind  he  hears 

That  blows  ofi  Kent  at  night. 

And  it  makes  him  yearn  for  the  hea\y  trees 

Above  the  thatch-roof  high, 
And  the  hop-\ine  smell,  mixed  on  the  breeze 

With  salt  of  the  sea  close  by. 
For  the  daily  toil,  and  the  nightly  ease, 

And  the  old  stars  in  the  sky; 

For  August  time,  for  harvest  time, 

WTien  all  the  hop-fields  ring  ^ 
With  laughing  toil,  till  even-chime 

Makes  end  of  harvesting 
And  sets  folk  reading  the  sweet  rhyme 

With  lovers'  whispermg; 
265 


For  the  western  window  where  he  prayed 

By  his  mother's  knee,  for  all 
The  lengthening  afternoons  he  played 

And  watched  the  shadows  fall 
Slanting  across  the  lawn  to  shade 

The  peach-bloom  covered  wall; 

For  the  shaded  plot  where  one  now  dwells 

Deep  in  the  earth  so  brown, 
Nor  hears  how  every  evening  swells 

Over  the  rolling  down 

The  sound  of  golden  curfew  bells 

In  Canterbury  town. 

D.  L.  MacVeagh,  '13. 


THE  CHARLES  AT  NIGHT 

A  STAR-LIT  night, 
The  wind  just  right, 
We  drift  along,  away 
From  noise  and  light. 
Till  out  of  sight 
We  lose  the  fading  day. 

The  cold  gray  stream 
All  'round,  we  seem 
Alone  upon  the  sea, 
And  like  a  dream 
That  distant  gleam 
A  light,  for  you  and  me. 

The  darkness  blue. 

Cool  breeze,  and  you 

Bring  joy  and  sweet  content. 

A  beach  floats  to 

Our  light  canoe, 

And  now  we  're  homeward  bent. 

H.  C.  Greene,  '14. 

266 


THE  MAIDEN  AND   THE  MEADOW 

I  MET  a  maid  upon  the  way 

That  leads 

To  meads 
With  flowers  aglow. 
And  she  had  decked  her  bonnet  gay 
With  all  the  fairest  flowers  that  grow 
Upon  a  simimer's  day. 

Now  I  was  bent  the  mead  to  find 

WTiere  blows 

The  rose, 
A  burning  star; 
So  to  the  maid  I  low  inclined, 
Then  hastened  to  the  field  afar 
And  left  the  maid  behind. 

But  plucked  I  not  a  flower,  I  swear, 
Where  sweet 
Her  feet 
Had  lately  pressed; 
And  not  a  flower  I  saw  was  fair, 
For  she  had  gathered  all  the  best 
That  blossom  any^^^here. 

J.  A.  Macy,  '99. 


CHANSON  DU  CE.EPUSCULE 

On  moore  and  hill 

Song's  echoes  die, 
And  from  the  still 

Blue  vault  of  sky 
Comes  whispering  sweep 

Of  swallow's  wings  — 
Forget  to  weep 

Remembered  things! 

267 


Why  sigh  and  grieve 

Beloved  eyes? 
On  some  great  eve 

These  saffron  skies 
Must  see  the  sun 

Fade  in  the  west  — 
On  all  we  won 

From  our  brave  quest. 


We  may  not  take 

Beloved  —  there, 
For  memory's  sake, 

This  golden  hair; 
Each  look  and  smile 

Must  pass  from  sight  — 
We  love  awhile, 

And  here  —  ^^  Good-night  I  ^^ 


And  when  the  spring 

In  rapture  strews 
Rich  garnering. 

Her  softest  dews 
Shall  deck  the  grass 

O  'er  each  fond  head, 
And  ere  she  pass 

Lament  us  dead. 


Thus  at  Love's  close 

Dreams  dearly  bought 
Fade,  as  the  rose. 

And  come  to  naught; 
Life's  gayest  flowers. 

Her  sorrows  deep, 
Her  sweetest  hours. 

Lie  hushed  in  sleep ! 

W.  G.  Tinckom-Fernandez,  'io. 
268 


SERENADE 

Lady  of  the  jasmine  ^'indow, 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  rose  — 
Know  you  how  the  white  moon  throws 
Dancing  spirits  on  your  'window, 
Jasmine,  rose-encircled  window  — 
WTiile  the  lulling  stars  crown  nightly 
Your  repose? 


Love,  around  your  curtained  T\^ndow 
Close  the  rose  and  jasmine  cling  — 
But  your  moon-white  fingers  fling 
Winderness  not  from  your  window, 
From  your  dusky,  loveless  window, 
To  the  stars  that  crown  you  nightly, 
As  I  sing. 

Lady  of  the  loveless  window, 

Are  you  dreaming  then  of  me? 

Aye,  then  dream  —  and  go  ye  free 
To  me  through  the  jasmined  window, 
Through  the  friendly,  jasmined  -window  — 
While  the  stars  and  I  watch  nightly, 

Dream  of  me. 

Hermann  Hagedorn,  jr.,  '07. 


CHIMES 

Ring,  bells  of  Christmas,  send  out  swift 
Your  winged  intervals  of  tone; 
Clear,  thrilling  messengers  of  sound 
That  t\^'ine  your  circling  notes  around 
Our  senses,  which  you  gently  lift 
To  heights  they  could  not  gain  alone. 
269 


Bells  that  trip  down,  then  up,  the  scale, 
As  children  run  from  the  topmost  floor 
At  a  father's  voice,  then  up  again 
Dragging  their  father  in  their  train 
To  hear  the  promised  evening  tale 
Of  fairies,  giants,  knights  of  yore. 

S.  Ervin,  'o8. 


ESTABLISHING  A   MOTIVE 

"Well,  did  you  see  father?"  inquired  Edyth 
Carrington,  as  Harold  Borden  came  into  the  room. 

"I  saw  father,"  answered  Harold  dejectedly, 
sinking  into  a  chair. 

"Well  then,  what  did  he  say?" 

Harold  waved  his  hand  in  despair. 

"Edyth,"  he  said,  "whatever  happens,  remember 
that  we  are  engaged!" 

The  girl  stamped  her  foot  in  her  impatience. 

" Can't  you  trust  me  at  all? "  she  cried.  "What 
did  father  say?" 

Harold  Borden  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of 
his  in  the  conventional  manner. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  began,  "it  may  be  that  this 
will  be  our  last  meeting."  He  cleared  his  throat 
and  went  on.  "Your  father  says  that  I  am  not  to 
marry  you  —  not  even  to  call  on  you  —  until  I  can 
show  him  that  I  have  earned  ten  thousand  dollars.'* 

Edyth  started  up  as  if  to  interrupt  him.  Harold 
motioned  her  to  be  silent. 

"More  than  that,  my  dear,"  he  went  on  quite 
calmly,  "if  I  have  not  fulfilled  his  conditions  within 
six  months,  your  father  is  going  to  release  you  from 
my  option  on  you  and  throw  you  into  the  open 
market!" 

The  beautiful  girl  yawned  discreetly  behind  her 
handkerchief. 

270 


"Well,  Hal,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?'' 
she  inquired. 

Borden  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
thoughtfully;  then  he  stood  up  before  her  and  gazed 
at  her  as  if  she  was  helping  him  solve  his  problem. 

"My  dear,"  he  mused,  as  if  to  himself,  "I'll  have 
the  ten  thousand  dollars  in  half  of  six  months.  I'm 
going  to  T\Tite  a  short  story.  There's  a  lot  of  money 
in  writing  short  stories." 

The  girl's  face  brightened. 

"VvTiy  of  course  there  is,"  she  agreed;  "why 
didn't  we  think  of  that  before?  You'll  begin  to- 
night, won't  you?  You  must,  because  it's  going  to 
be  fearfully  dull  -^dthout  you  around  here  every 
afternoon  to  take  tea.  But  if  you  're  going  to  write 
a  story,  why,  you  ought  to  have  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars before  very  long." 

Borden  stroked  his  chin. 

"All  right,  my  sweet,  I'll  start  the  story  tonight. 
Gee,  I  wish  you  could  help  me!  You  see,  I  never 
wrote  a  story.  Well,  I've  got  to  leave  you  now. 
Yes,  I've  got  to.  I'll  have  to  find  a  plot,  you  know. 
Sometimes  you  can't  find  one,  and  then  you  have  to 
invent  one  yourself." 

He  took  the  girl  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  as 
passionately  as  he  could. 

"Good-bye,  little  girl!  Good-bye,  perhaps  only 
until  next  Vv^ek,  perhaps"  —  he  shuddered  —  "for- 
ever." 

Harold  Borden  fled  from  the  big  room,  ran  do-^m 
the  front  steps,  and  was  off  in  search  of  his  plot. 
That  night  he  worked  at  his  story  as  hard  as  Gold- 
smith ever  worked  to  wTite  him.self  partially  out  of 
debt,  or  Dr.  Johnson  to  pay  for  his  mother's  funeral. 
By  da^m  his  efforts  were  rewarded.  The  story  was 
complete. 

"I'll  have  to  get  it  typed,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. "That'll  cost  at  least  two  dollars,  and  I've 
only  got  ten  to  last  for  three  weeks." 

271 


After  breakfast  he  took  his  masterpiece  to  a 
public  stenographer,  and  at  eleven  it  was  all  ready 
for  the  mail.  Harold  mailed  the  manuscript  to 
McGuire's  Magazine^  which  he  understood  was  a 
periodical  of  particular  literary  merit,  and  sat  down 
to  wait  for  his  check. 

At  this  point  let  me  tell  you  what  Harold's 
story  was  about.  He  called  it  ''The  Marital  Auc- 
tion Block."  It  told  the  story  of  a  pretty  telephone 
operator  who  was  in  love  with  the  elevator  boy  in 
a  large  hotel.  The  girl's  father  was  a  salesman  in  a 
cigar  store,  and  he  very  naturally  objected  to  his 
daughter's  marriage  outside  of  her  own  class.  He, 
therefore,  told  the  elevator  boy  that  if  he  could 
become  hall  porter  in  three  months,  the  girl  was  his. 
Otherwise  he  must  never  see  her  face  again.  The 
poor  elevator  boy  was  unable  to  meet  these  condi- 
tions, and  at  the  end  of  the  time  allowed,  he  at- 
temped  to  call  upon  Arline  —  for  that  was  the  girl's 
name  —  but  was  refused  admission  to  the  house  by 
the  father.  The  unfortunate  fellow  immediately 
shot  himself  on  his  sweetheart's  doorstep.  A  few 
weeks  later  Arline  killed  herself  by  jumping  from 
the  top  of  the  hotel  where  she  was  employed,  and 
her  parents  spent  the  rest  of  their  days  in  an  insane 
hospital.  Borden  ended  the  story  with  the  father 
of  the  girl  racing  about  in  a  padded  cell  and  shouting, 
*' Curse  you,  take  my  daughter!    This  is  Hell!" 

Harold  realized  that  the  story  was  a  good  one 
and  that  he  ought  to  make  a  lot  of  money  out  of  it. 
At  the  same  time  he  realized  that  with  the  best  pos- 
sible luck,  he  should  n't  be  able  to  see  Edyth  for  at 
least  a  week,  and  this  irked  him.  He  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  do  as  he  pleased,  and  waiting  for  anything 
was  positively  disagreeable.  In  about  four  days  he 
received  a  letter  from  McGuire^s  Magazine  like  this : 

"Dear  Mr.  Borden,  —  We  enclose  our  check  for 
$350  in  payment  for  your  very  good  story,  "The 

272 


Marital  Auction  Block."  We  are  also  enclosing  a 
contract  blank  which  calls  for  ten  stories  from  you 
within  the  next  year,  for  which  we  will  pay  you 
$3,000  upon  receipt  of  the  signed  contract. 

Sincerely, 

McGuire's  Magazine." 

Borden  read  the  letter  in  disgust. 

"Is  that  all  they  pay?"  he  snorted.  "Why  at 
that  rate  I'll  not  be  able  to  get  married  for  a  year!" 

He  stuffed  the  check  into  his  pocket,  signed  the 
contract  absently,  and  waited  for  the  magazine  to 
appear.  In  two  weeks  more  McGuire's  was  on  the 
stands.  Harold  bought  a  copy  to  see  how  "The 
Marital  Auction  Block"  looked  in  print.  It  was 
prefaced  by  an  "editor's  note"  which  introduced 
Borden  as  a  "new  but  distinctive  writer,"  and  it 
was  illustrated  by  a  famous  pen-and-ink  artist. 
Over  the  news-stand,  there  was  a  placard  announc- 
ing. 

All  the  Favorites ! 

Bernard  Shaw,  Rudyard  Kipling,  Harold  Borden, 
Hall  Caine,  and  Ida  M.  Tarbell. 

15  cents. 

Harold  bought  a  newspaper,  and  almost  the  first 
thing  he  ran  across  was: 

Mothers!    Are  you  selling  your  girls? 
Young  men!    Are  you  being  held  to  a  price 

Read!    Think!    Act! 

Harold  Borden's  story,  "The  Marital  Auction 
Block"  will  start  You  thinking. 

"What  the  world  has  waited  for."  —  Times, 
"Right  up  with  the  tunesV'  —  Post. 

McGuire's  for  June. 

273 


Harold  smiled. 

"They'll  have  my  face  on  playing  cards  before 
long,  and  they'll  accuse  me  of  smoking  'Bull  Dur- 
ham-Duplex/ Of  something,"  he  mused,  ''but  I 
wish  they  would  send  me  more  money." 

Upon  arriving  at  his  home,  he  found  nine  letters 
from  editors  who  wanted  him  to  sign  contracts  for 
all  the  way  from  $2,000  to  $4,500.  He  threw  them 
all  aside  and  picked  up  one  from  McGuire's,  It 
read: 

*'  My  dear  Mr.  Borden,  —  You  may  be  aware 
that  our  success  depends  upon  keeping  our  sub- 
scription list  down  to  a  point  where  our  advertising 
can  pay  for  publishing  the  magazine.  Your  story  in 
the  June  number  has  so  swamped  us  with  sub- 
scriptions that  ruin  seems  imminent.  We  must 
stop  them  from  coming  in. 

"Our  offer  to  you  is  this:  We  will  pay  you  $10,000 
if  you  will  release  us  from  our  contract  with  you,  and 
publish  a  story  in  the  pages  of  Worst's,  our  hated 
rival.  We  will  send  you  our  check  as  soon  as  we 
see  the  story  in  Worst's.''  We  do  this  because  we 
desire  to  see  that  magazine  fail,  and  we  think  your 
stories  are  popular  enough  to  cause  the  failure  of 
any  periodical. 

Yours  very  truly, 

S.  S.  McGuiRE,  Pres." 

*' That's  more  to  the  point,"  commented  Borden, 
as  he  went  to  his  room  to  begin  his  second  story. 

Two  days  later  he  sent  "Not  Guilty,  your  Honor," 
the  story  of  a  real  boy,  to  Worst's,  and  received 
therefor  a  check  for  $500  and  an  offer  of  $5,000  for 
twelve  more  stories. 

Worst's  came  out  soon,  with  Harold  as  a  top- 
liner.  McGuire's  immediately  thereupon  sent  their 
check  for  $10,000  as  they  had  promised.  Then 
Harold  started  to  call  on  Edyth. 

274 


_  "I  knew  you  could  do  it,  Hal,"  cooed  the  sweet 
girl  admiringly. 

"So  did  I,"  agreed  Harold  unconcernedly,  ''but 
when  shall  we  have  the  wedding?" 

The  girl  turned  the  question  aside. 

"  Oh,  we  '11  wait  a  few  weeks  or  so.  But  Hal,  what 
are  we  going  to  do  when  this  ten  thousand  dollars 
is  gone?" 

Harold  smiled  upon  her,  and  then  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!  I  just  got  a  letter  from 
Scrihler's,  offering  me  $20,000  to  let  them  publish 
my  stories  in  a  book!" 

F.  C.  Nelson,  '16. 


AS  YOU   (Vv^ON'T)  LIKE  IT 

Young  lover,  pray  listen  a  moment,  and  heed 

Some  advice  for  the  cure  of  your  passion: 
In  choosing  a  wife,  trust  the  half  that  you  read. 

For  pastorals  are  n't  in  the  fashion. 
Don't  seek  for  a  princess  in  shepherdess  guise; 

Time  proves  but  a  sober  old  warden; 
And  when  bargains  are  cloaked,  they  are  apt  to 
surprise  — 

And  it's  far  to  the  Forest  of  Arden. 


Don't  trust  to  the  wisdom  of  swains  newly  wed; 

Don't  dip  into  honied  romances; 
For  women  are  creatures  who  have  to  be  fed, 

And  not  wholly  on  kisses  and  glances. 
Choose,  therefore,  a  wife  who  is  homely  and  staid, 

And  whose  housekeeping  asks  for  no  pardon, 
Whose  thoughts  are  domestic,  whose  wits  never 
strayed  — 

For  it's  far  to  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

275 


Don't  dream  that  a  shepherd  can  live  at  his  ease 

Writing  sonnets  for  days  without  ending; 
Though  mutton  is  good  when  you  serve  it  with  peas, 

As  sheep  it  has  need  of  some  tending. 
A  wench  from  the  country  is  soonest  to  fade, 

And  the  softest  of  voices  will  harden ; 
So,  though  Phoebe  may  ogle  you,  leave  her  a  maid  — 

For  it 's  far  to  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

A  widow?  —  perhaps;  if  she  is  n't  too  young. 

And  can  bring  you  a  neat  little  fortune, 
And  has  n't  a  quip  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue 

And  a  baby  or  two  to  importune. 
Let  your  Rosalind  wait  at  the  trysting  gate 

With  the  dreamy  old  flowers  in  the  garden. 
Take  Juliet  instead,  and  be  married  in  state.  .  .  . 

For  —  it's  far  to  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  'io. 


DAWN 

Awake,  awake/  a  shadow  strikes  the  dial; 
The  swallows  twitter  in  a  lighting  sky: 
Afield  we  '11  drink  the  dewdrops  on  the  rye 

And  barter  kisses  twice  at  every  stile. 

Awake,  awake!  and  roam  with  me  a  while: 
We  '11  hunt  the  rainbow's  end,  for  treasures  lie 
There  in  a  pot  of  ruddy  gold  —  but  I 

Will  give  my  share  to  win  your  archest  smile! 

Awake,  awake  I  forgive  my  jealous  thought 
And  leave  it  in  the  clutch  of  hateful  night. 
Harsh  words  leap  from  the  lips  and  not  the  heart: 
If  love  is  stung  with  nettles,  heal  the  smart 
With  roses,  and  his  smiles  are  thrice  as  bright! 
Awake,  awake!  and  learn  as  Love  has  taught! 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  'io. 
276 


I  TOO  HAVE  BEEN  IN  ARCADY 

I  TOO  have  been  in  Arcady, 

And  all  the  air  was  sweet 
With  hints  of  vanished  memories 

And  longings  incomplete; 
And  all  the  hills  of  Arcady 
Were  white  with  flocks  that  used  to  be, 
And  all  the  vales  of  Arcady 

Were  bright  with  garnered  wheat, 

I  too  have  been  in  Arcady, 

And  all  the  sky  was  blue  — 
A  dome  of  vanished  mysteries, 

Of  things  that  once  were  true; 
And  all  the  pools  of  Arcady 
Were  full  of  tears  that  used  to  be, 
And  all  the  streams  of  Arcady 
Were  fed  with  vanished  dew. 

I  too  have  been  in  Arcady, 

And  all  the  lovers  there 
Were  bred  in  vanished  courtesies 

And  things  that  once  were  fair. 
But  all  the  songs  of  Arcady 
Were  plaintive,  so  it  seemed  to  me; 
And  all  the  loves  of  Arcady 

Were  fraught  ^^ih  old  despair. 

Edward  Eyre  Hunt,  'io. 


JEAN 

When  dust  shall  turn  to  dust  —  in  life's  December, 
When  ail  that 's  left  is  cheerfully  to  die, 

I  '11  pray  to  God  above  I  may  remember 

The  passions  that  were  sounded  in  your  sigh. 

277 


With  lips  apart,  and  widened  eyes  that  glistened, 
You  met  my  kiss,  and  sighed  —  I  hear  it  yet; 

And  if  there  is  a  God,  He  must  have  listened, 
And  having  heard,  forbids  me  to  forget. 

So  then,  when  I  am  old,  worn  out  and  broken, 
When  Strength,  and  Youth,  and  Hope,  and  Love, 
are  spent, 
Let  me  remember,  dying,  as  a  token, 

That  sweet,  fierce  sigh:  and  I  shall  be  content. 

Alfred  Putnam,  'i8. 


IN  MEMORY 

Or  Richard  Hall,  an  American  Volunteer, 
Killed  in  Alsace  by  a  German  Shell  on 
Christmas  Eve,  1915. 

We  saw  him  turn  to  us  and  wave. 

We  sped  toward  home ;  and  he  turned  back 
To  breast  the  shell-torn  mountain  track, 

And  find  in  France  a  soldier's  grave. 

Music  for  us,  and  to  its  swell 

Moved  the  fair  figures  of  the  dance. 

^T  was  Christmas  Eve;  and  there  in  France 

A  Red  Cross  Knight,  our  hero,  fell. 

We  drank  to  them  on  Christmas  day; 

The  wine  of  France  gleamed  in  our  glass 

While  raged  the  battle  in  Alsace. 
And  in  the  snow  our  hero  lay. 

Embattled  mountains  fringe  the  sky, 

Where  march  our  friends  in  sorrow  mute, 
And  wondering  Alpine  troops  salute, 

As  slow  the  gun-cart  rumbles  by. 

278 


Knight  of  the  Cross,  Crusader  true. 
Two  banners  mourn  a  noble  friend; 
And  o  'er  thy  bier  their  colors  blend 

In  Friendship's  badge,  red,  white  and  blue! 

M.  F.  Talbot,  'i6. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  MASS 

The  holy  candles  fade  and  flare 

\Miere  the  slow  priest  -^-ith  swaying  tread 
Moves,  and  the  organ  shudders  there 

And  the  dumb  people  bow  the  head. 

The  body  of  Christ  is  dead. 

His  hands  hang  bleeding  on  the  wall; 

O  the  white  loin-cloth  streaked  ^ath  red, 
O  the  pale  body,  stript  and  tall! 

Yet  though  you  wail  these  words  you  said, 

The  body  of  Christ  is  dead. 

Weep  and  moan,  weep  and  moan. 

Body  and  soul  are  both  of  God, 
Can  you  keep  the  soul  when  the  life  is  gone. 

Shall  not  the  body  through  flower  and  clod, 

Strive  sunward  through  the  sod! 

O  common  world,  O  world  of  men. 
Have  you  no  answer,  are  you  dumb, 

Who  bore  us  Christ  and  shall  again 

Bear  us  a  Christ  when  the  time  is  come? 
Where  is  your  voice  —  are  you  dumb? 

They  crucified  him  when  he  cried 

And  mocked  him  standing  underneath; 

Shall  they  tear  the  son  from  the  mother's  side, 
Shall  they  call  him  God  ^dth  profane  breath, 
Shall  they  rob  a  man  of  death? 
279 


They  have  crown 'd  him  with  a  fire  of  light, 

With  all  the  heavens  for  his  seat, 
They  have  made  him  awful  with  might  of  might. 

Where  are  the  man's  eyes  still  and  sweet, 

Where  are  the  tired  feet? 

The  silence  aches,  but  through  the  reeds 

Of  the  organ,  through  choir  and  arches  dim, 
The  echoing  world  grows  loud  and  pleads, 

With  rough,  hard  hands  and  thorny  diadem, 
*' Where  is  my  Christ,  what  have  you  done  to 
him?" 

John  H.  Wheelock,  'o8. 


A  MURDERER 

You  say  it  is  the  chair,  Your  Honor?  —  Well, 

I  hardly  care;  I  knew  I'd  be  condemned  — 

I  knew  it  as  I  watched  him  from  the  street. 

While  he  was  standing  at  the  counter  there 

And  talking  to  the  woman  at  his  side. 

I  knew  what  kind  she  was  —  I  saw  him  pay 

A  hundred  dollars  for  a  little  jewel 

To  buy  her  with.  .  .  .  And  then  I  felt  my  knife 

To  see  that  it  was  sharp.  —  I  had  to  strike 

With  all  my  strength,  because  the  coat  he  wore 

Was  lined  with  heavy  fur  to  keep  him  warm. 

Why  did  I  want  to  kill  him?  —  Well,  you  see, 
He  owns  the  factory  where  I  used  to  work. 
And  every  cent,  Your  Honor,  that  he  has. 
Belongs  to  men  like  me.  ...  On  cloudy  days 
They  would  n't  give  us  light  —  it  cost  too  much. 
And  then  they  fired  me  when  I  could  n't  see 
To  do  my  work.    They  did  n't  give  us  more 
Than  half  of  what  a  man  should  have  to  live  — 

280 


And  I  was  married  —  and  my  wife  was  sick: 
That  sealskin  coat,  Your  Honor,  that  he  wore, 
Was  bought  T^dth  what  I  earned.     He  stole  from  me 
All  that  I  asked  —  the  wages  I  deserved. 

I  ought  to  know  the  sacredness  of  life?  — 

My  God !    Your  Honor,  if  he  were  alive, 

I  'd  strike  him  down  again.  ...  I  watched  him  take 

A  hundred  dollars  from  his  pocketbook 

To  throw  away  —  money  he'd  robbed  me  of  — 

And  robbed  my  wife  as  well.  ...  A  little  part 

Of  that,  Your  Honor,  would  have  saved  her  life! 


SONNET 

My  love,  I  know  you,  and  in  knowing  you 
I  know  the  meaning  of  all  things  that  are: 
Why  in  star-dusty  heaven  glints  afar 

The  Light  that  leads,  and  doth  our  hope  renew. 

The  dark  arcana  of  the  night  I  view 

All  unafraid.    Let  Life  and  Death  make  War. 

I  pierce  the  earth-bound  fantasies  that  bar, 

And  find  that  you,  and  I,  and  love,  are  true. 

'T  is  good  to  know  that  things  —  all  things  —  are 
good, 
And  not  some  mad  god's  heedless  mockery. 

No  more  I  fear  the  vastness  of  the  flood. 

Nor  stand  appall'd  'neath  night's  black  vacancy. 

For  one  brief  moment  I  have  understood; 
In  one  heart-throb  outlived  eternity. 

Frank  Dazey,  '14. 


THE  MAN  WHO  PAID 

He  went  out  in  the  streets  to  buy  a  soul, 

He  had  gold  and  was  willing  to  pay; 
So  he  purchased  a  pair  of  scarlet  lips 
And  a  twist  of  hair  like  the  gold  that  drips 

281 


From  the  hive  on  a  summer  day; 

And  a  face  that  smiled 

Like  a  little  child, 
Though  the  eyes  were  cold  and  gray. 

He  clothed  her  in  silks  of  rare  device, 

With  gems  like  a  princess  of  old, 
And  he  gave  her  the  best  of  all  he  had, 
The  good  that  remains  when  a  man  is  bad  — 
Still  her  eyes  were  gray  and  cold, 
Though  he  fought  and  strove 
With  the  strength  of  love 
To  make  them  bright  with  gold. 

But  "all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love," 

It's  the  end  of  the  game  we  play. 
And  he  'd  paid  with  his  soul  for  the  soul  he'd  bought 
So  he  had  the  right  to  do  as  he  wrought 
When  her  eyes  were  cold  and  gray  — 
He  could  bring  no  light 
So  he  brought  the  night 
To  those  eyes  so  cold  and  gray. 

F.  H.  Dazey,  '14. 


CONSOLATION 

The  seas  swing  deep,  the  seas  break  steep, 

In  thunder  bursts  the  spray; 
The  rocks  run  wet,  the  sun  has  set, 

And  a  wind  mourns  out  the  day. 

Yet  over  the  shroud  of  the  rising  cloud 

There  hangs  one  star  for  me  — 
And  far  on  the  dim  horizon's  rim 
The  lights  of  a  ship  at  sea. 

R.  MacVeagh,  '10. 
282 


SONNET 

Onward  !  men  cry,  and  into  darkness  peer, 

Searching  the  secret  night  for  any  sign 

To  guide  their  footsteps  to  the  inmost  shrine, 

Only  to  turn  again  w^th  little  cheer. 

But  some  there  are,  more  brave,  who  persevere, 

And  for  a  space  amid  the  darkness  shine: 

Even  unto  them  are  closed  the  ways  di\'ine. 

And  back  they  also  come,  confused  with  fear. 

And  so  they  labor  onward.     Onward?    Who 

Of  men  is  strong  enough  by  toil  alone, 

Forsaking  earth,  to  pass  the  portals  through 

That  keep  Love's  heaven?  None  guard  the  holy  fire, 

Nor  worship  in  the  splendor  of  the  throne, 

Who  are  purged  by  tears  and  great  desire. 

Harold  W.  Bell,  '07. 


LA   ESMERALDA 

Amid  the  fire  glow  in  fantasie 

You  danced  ^dthin  the  changing  light  and  shade 
WTiile  all  were  silent,  mute  in  ecstasy, 

And  lissom  images  about  you  played. 

You  loved  a  Phoebus  and  he  passed  you  by 
With  but  a  glance  like  many  another  sun, 

But  like  a  heliotrope  imploringly 

You  followed  him  until  the  day  was  done. 

We  hear  poor  Djali's  melancholy  bleat, 

The  Place  de  Greve  stands  desolate,  alone  — 

No  more  the  sounds  of  twinkling  childish  feet; 
No  more  the  shadows  leaping  on  the  stone. 

E.  L.  McKiNNEY,  '12. 

283 


IN  THE  BATONS  HAREM 

"It  is  out  of  the  question!"  declared  Captain 
Talbot  to  his  daughter  Inez.  "Why,  the  very  idea 
of  that  brown-faced  Dato  Morang  daring  to  offer  us 
terms  of  peace  upon  the  condition  that  I  give  you 
over  to  him  to  marry!  I'll  riddle  him  with  bullets 
the  very  first  chance  I  get ! " 

''But  father,"  protested  Inez,  "you  know  the 
garrison  can't  hold  out  much  longer.  There  are 
only  twenty  or  so  able-bodied  soldiers  left.  .  .  . 
Why  do  you  suppose  Major  Davis  insisted  upon 
taking  off  two  thirds  of  the  post  on  a  hike,  when 
the  natives  were  so  restless?  Let  me  go  to  Dato 
Morang.  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  Then  you  will 
be  able  to  get  in  touch  with  Camp  Dixon,  and 
rescue  me  in  several  days  —  it  is  the  only  thing 
that'll  save  us,  my  going  to  Dato  Morang." 

Father  and  daughter  had  been  arguing  while 
seated  upon  the  veranda  of  their  little  nipa  quarters, 
and  neither  had  noticed  until  now  that  Lieutenant 
Thomas  was  waiting  near  by. 

"Yes,  Bennet;  what  is  it?"  demanded  the  cap- 
tain. Whereupon  Inez  asked  Dicky  Bennet  to 
come  up  on  the  porch.  With  a  friendly  nod  he  ac- 
cepted her  invitation  and  said  a  trifle  awkwardly 
to  her  father:  "A  —  messenger  from  Dato  Morang 
is  waiting  for  an  answer  to  the  Dato's  proposition. 
...  Of  course,  you  won't  stand  for  it.  Captain?" 

"Bennet,  you  ought  to  be  shot  for  even  asking 
such  a  question.    I  — " 

"Dick,"  interrupted  Inez,  addressing  Bennet, 
"tell  the  messenger  that  Captain  Talbot  accepts 
the  Dato's  offer." 

Her  father  snorted  his  disapproval,  and  started 
to  force  her  into  the  house,  when  Bennet's  words 
checked  him. 

"You  know  none  of  us  would  allow  you  to  do 

284 


such  a  thing,  Inez.     But  I  have  a  plan.     It  just 
entered  my  mind." 

A  plan!  Anything  which  might  save  them  from 
the  cordon  of  Moros  which  surrounded  the  garrison 
would  be  most  welcome  at  this  precarious  time. 
"\\Tiat  is  it?"  questioned  Inez  and  her  father  to- 
gether. 

''It  is  this,"  began  Bennet,  his  voice  vibrating 
with  eagerness.  "You  remember  those  two  Aus- 
tralian vaudeville  performers  who  drifted  in  here 
a  few  days  ago  to  try  to  make  a  little  money  off  the 
soldiers?  They  are  over  at  the  soldiers'  quarters 
now.  They  could  n't  get  away  on  account  of  the 
Moros.  In  one  of  their '  turns '  one  of  the  men  dressed 
up  as  a  soubrette.  He  is  just  about  my  build,  and 
why  can't  I  dress  up  in  that  costume  and  go  in 
your  place  to  Dato  Morang?  The  old  devil  does  n't 
know  beans  about  the  way  white  women  dress  and 
look.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  you  were 
the  only  one  he  had  ever  seen,  and  then  he  saw  you 
at  a  distance.  The  short  soubrette  skirt  will  be 
just  the  thing  to  hike  through  the  jungle  in." 

Captain  Talbot  seized  Bennet's  hand.  ''You're 
a  genius!  You  have  saved  us!"  he  exclauned  en- 
thusiastically. 

"They  might  pull  off  your  vdg  or  something," 
cautioned  Inez.  "Oh,  but  Dick,  think  what  they 
might  do  to  you  if  they  find  out  the  truth." 

"Don't  worry  your  little  head  over  that,  Inez," 
consoled  Bennet.  "I'll  make  some  bride  for  the 
Dato,  all  right,  all  right!" 

"You  darling!"  exclaimed  Inez  in  admiration, 
and  in  her  exultation  she  forgot  all  proprieties,  and 
throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck  —  kissed  him. 

It  was  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after 
the  first  tranquil  night  in  five  days,  that  the  little 
garrison  of  Tassigan  gathered  around  Lieutenant 
Richard  Bennet,  to  bid  him  the  best  of  luck  on  his 
dangerous  undertaking.    And  what  a  sight  he  was! 

285 


Over  a  blonde  wig  he  wore  an  old  Panama  hat  of 
Inez's.  He  was  dressed  in  a  pink  dancing  dress, 
which  barely  came  to  his  knees.  The  rest  of  his 
costume  was  made  up  of  a  long  pair  of  black  stock- 
ings and  a  heavy  pair  of  army  shoes.  Tucked  away 
in  his  bosom  was  a  Gillette  safety-razor  and  a  stick 
of  shaving  soap,  which  he  hoped  to  get  a  chance  to 
use,  or  else  he  might  develop  into  a  bearded  maiden, 
and  arouse  the  Moros'  suspicions.  And  just  before 
he  left  with  his  dozen  Moro  escorts,  he  gave  a  vivid 
description  of  himself  when  he  said  jokingly  to 
Inez,  "I  must  look  like  a  freckle  on  the  face  of 
nature." 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  he  was  entering  the 
jungle  with  his  Moro  captors,  a  cheer  from  the  garri- 
son reached  his  ears,  a  cheer  which  made  him  feel 
all  would  turn  out  well.  Camp  Dixon  was  only 
thirty  miles  from  Tassigan,  and  he  knew  that  by 
afternoon  the  former  garrison  would  be  notified  of 
his  danger,  and  a  rescue  party  would  then  soon  be 
after  him.  The  realization  of  this  kept  his  spirits  up 
wonderfully. 

They  had  not  gone  far  into  the  jungle  before  they 
met  groups  of  Moros  who,  having  heard  that  peace 
had  been  declared,  were  hurrying  back  to  their  vil- 
lages. While  the  natives  looked  daggers  at  Bennet, 
they  all  nodded  their  heads  in  respect  to  him,  for 
was  he  not  to  be  the  new  wife  of  the  great  Dato 
Morang?  Many  of  them  joined  Bennet's  party, 
and  when  they  camped  that  night  he  was  the  object 
of  a  hundred  or  so  curious  eyes.  At  the  first  signs  of 
dawn,  which  were  usually  heralded  by  the  crowing 
of  wild  cocks,  the  party  started  on  its  way  again. 
During  the  rest  of  the  journey  Bennet  rode  a  pony 
which  the  Dato  had  sent  for  him.  And  he  was  glad 
to  ride,  for  his  stockings  had  been  ripped  to  shreds 
by  the  underbrush,  and  his  calves  were  scratched 
and  sore. 

When  Bennet  was  still  a  number  of  miles  away 

286 


from  Oulang  Oulang,  Morang's  village,  the  faint, 
distant  thuddings  of  tom-toms  reached  his  ears.  As 
he  approached  nearer,  the  noise  grew  louder  and 
louder.  Evidently  he  was  to  be  received  in  royal 
fashion. 

Such  was  the  case.  As  the  party  reached  the 
outskirts  of  the  village,  curious  children  and  women 
were  seen  peeping  through  the  bushes.  When  Bennet 
and  his  captors  entered  Oulang  Oulang,  there  were 
throngs  to  greet  him,  while  the  tom-toms  gave  forth 
deafening  noises.  Presently  there  was  a  shout  and 
the  crowd  divided  into  two  parts,  as  Dato  Morang, 
escorted  by  a  slave  holding  an  umbrella  over  his 
head  to  keep  the  sun  from  his  royal  highness,  who 
in  reality  no  sun  could  affect,  however  hot,  came 
forth  to  greet  his  white  wife- to-be. 

What  an  actor  Bennet  was!  He  feigned  the  bash- 
ful but  trusting  maiden  to  perfection.  And  it  was 
no  easy  thing  to  do  under  the  circumstances.  The 
Dato  was  so  pleased  with  him  that  he  immediately 
made  a  speech  about  his  new  bride,  not  a  word  of 
which  Bennet  understood.  When  he  finished  speak- 
ing, he  led  the  way,  with  Bennet  clinging  woman- 
like to  his  arm,  to  his  huge  nipa  shack. 

A  few  minutes  later  Bennet  found  himself  in  the 
house,  and  on  their  knees  before  him  w^ere  the 
Dato's  other  wives.  He  suddenly  realized  that  he 
was  the  queen  of  Morang's  harem.  Never  in  his 
wildest  dreams  had  he  ever  dreamt  that  he  would 
be  a  member  of  a  harem  —  but  here  he  was.  And 
what  a  filthy  place  it  was!  The  floor  of  the  room 
was  made  of  bamboo;  and  dirty,  woven  mats  were 
strewn  over  it.  The  room  was  hazy  with  the  smoke 
from  a  small  stone  oven.  Over  in  a  corner  was  an 
old  hag  crooning  to  a  babe.  Sprawling  over  the 
floor  were  several  naked  youngsters.  Thomas  bade 
the  six  wives  of  Morang  arise.  Their  tongues  and 
lips  were  red  and  their  teeth  black  from  chewing 
betel-nut.    They  wore  tight-fitting  jackets,  and  for 

287 


skirts  pieces  of  brilliantly  hued  calico,  wrapped 
around  their  waists  and  extending  to  their  ankles. 
In  the  gloaming  they  resembled  spooks,  and  Bennet 
decided  that  he  would  never  spend  a  night  in  such 
a  place  as  this. 

A  few  hours  later  followed  a  dinner,  present  at 
which  were  only  members  of  the  Dato's  family. 
Morang  drank  much  tuba,  and  became  quite  amor- 
ous of  his  new  wife.  Spasmodically  he  hugged  her 
and  grunted  love-sayings  in  Bennet 's  ear,  while  the 
latter  wished  his  friends  could  see  him  and  enjoy  a 
good  hearty  laugh  at  his  expense. 

Dinner  was  followed  by  a  big  dance  and  feast  in 
the  open,  which  was  to  celebrate  Morang's  approach- 
ing marriage.  Only  the  women  danced.  Keeping 
time  with  the  tom-toms,  they  would  extend  an  arm 
covered  with  bracelets,  then  possibly  follow  this  by 
wiggling  a  toe.  Whereupon,  if  the  audience  was 
pleased,  it  would  manifest  its  pleasure  by  applaud- 
ing and  yelling. 

This  kept  up  for  hours,  when  suddenly  the  Date 
arose,  and  taking  Bennet  by  the  hand  led  him  out 
into  the  dancing  ground.  Immediately  the  women 
began  to  chant  and  the  tom-toms  to  beat  very  faintly. 
Then  Dato  Morang  began  to  dance  the  '' lover's 
dance"  about  Bennet.  Affectionately  he  touched 
various  parts  of  Bennet's  face.  He  felt  of  his  lips 
and  shouted  wildly,  whereupon  the  women  screamed, 
only  to  resume  their  dismal  chant  a  moment  later. 
The  Dato  felt  of  his  bride's  eyes,  and  the  yelling 
and  screaming  was  repeated.  The  next  time  he 
rested  his  hands  affectionately  upon  Bennet's  wig. 
As  he  was  removing  his  hands,  one  of  his  be  jeweled 
brass  rings  caught  in  the  masses  of  blonde  hair,  and 
the  wig  was  jerked  back  off  his  head ! 

A  death-like  silence  followed,  during  which  the 
Moros  realized  they  had  been  duped.  Bennet 
looked  frantically  about  to  see  where  he  might 
best  break  through  the  circle  of  angry  natives.    But 

288 


they  perceived  his  intentions,  and  with  savage  yells 
rushed  upon  him.  Bennet  seized  Morang's  bolo  and 
whirled  it  round  and  round  his  head,  cutting  down 
several  Moros.  But  he  was  soon  overcome  by  the 
number  of  natives  attacking  him,  and  he  probably 
would  have  been  slashed  to  pieces  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  Dato,  who  ordered  them  not  to  harm  him. 
Morang  was  furious,  and  after  mercilessly  jabbing 
his  bolo  into  his  victim's  arms,  he  had  several 
Moros  take  him  off. 

Bennet  spent  that  night  King  in  the  center  of 
the  village,  his  wrists  and  legs  tightly  bound,  while 
near  by  two  natives  dug  a  hole  in  the  ground.  Bennet 
knew  what  his  fate  was  to  be:  they  were  going  to 
bury  him  up  to  his  neck ;  then,  after  pouring  a  sweet 
syrup  over  his  head,  dump  a  red  ant  hill  over  him. 
Red  ants  bite  like  hornets !    And  red  ants  like  syrup ! 

Bennet  was  not  placed  in  this  hole  of  torture  that 
night  nor  the  next  morning.  There  seemed  to  be 
divers  opinions  among  the  Dato  and  his  wise  men 
as  to  what  they  had  better  do  with  him.  Some  sug- 
gested that  he  be  taken  back  into  the  hills  and 
killed  there ;  while  others  argued  that  if  their  prisoner 
were  killed,  a  long  interval  of  guerilla  fighting  would 
follow,  for  the  Americans  saw  that  any  wrongdoers 
were  punished.  However,  the  natives  were  suffer- 
ing the  anguish  of  having  been  duped,  and  they 
finally  concluded  that  the  ''Christian  dog"  had 
better  die.  Their  decision  ran  rampant  through  the 
village,  whereupon  the  women  and  children  began 
to  nag  and  humiliate  Bennet:  they  spat  upon  him, 
they  kicked  him,  they  poked  him  and  pulled  his 
hair. 

In  the  early  afternoon,  when  the  time  came  for 
him  to  be  placed  in  the  hole,  he  was  almost  thankful, 
for  he  would  be  spared  this  painful  nagging.  He  was 
lowered  into  what  he  considered  his  grave  with  his 
wrists  and  legs  still  bound.  A  syrup  made  from 
sugar  cane  was  poured  over  his  head  and  was  care- 

289 


fully  rubbed  into  his  eyes  and  ears.  Presently,  two 
women,  with  a  sack  of  dirt,  teeming  with  red  ants, 
gleefully  poured  it  over  his  head.  In  order  to 
breathe  he  had  to  shake  the  dirt  aside;  then  sud- 
denly he  felt  as  if  a  nest  of  hornets  had  lit  upon  his 
face  and  head.  There  came  sting  after  sting.  Wild 
with  pain,  he  cursed  the  Moros,  and  as  he  opened 
his  mouth  to  swear,  ants  craw^led  in.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments his  tongue,  purple  and  swollen  many  times 
its  natural  size,  was  protruding  out  of  his  mouth.  He 
tried  to  break  his  bonds ;  he  struggled;  he  squirmed; 
he  cursed;  he  pleaded,  but  only  to  add  to  the  glee 
of  the  Moros.  Then  with  one  final  effort  to  free 
himself  —  he  swooned. 

Unconscious,  and  slowly  being  bitten  to  death, 
he  was  unaware  of  the  commotion  caused  by  the 
news  that  the  Americanos  were  hurrying  upon  the 
village.  He  was  not  able  to  shout  a  word  of  warn- 
ing to  his  countrymen  that  the  village  was  not 
deserted,  as  the  natives  tried  to  make  it  appear 
by  hiding  in  their  huts  and  among  the  neighbor- 
ing trees  and  bushes,  so  that  when  the  soldiers 
were  in  their  midst,  they  might  rush  upon  them 
from  all  sides  and  take  them  by  surprise.  He  did 
not  know  that  the  soldiers  had  rescued  him  from 
his  predicament,  before  the  little  brown  devils  had 
rushed  upon  them.  Nor  did  he  know  of  the  terrible 
fight  which  was  waged  around  him;  nor  was  he  able 
to  thank  the  soldiers  and  praise  them,  when  the 
Moros  were  driven  screeching  into  the  hills  and 
jungles.  For  when  he  did  gain  consciousness  he  was 
in  a  comfortable  army  bed  at  Camp  Tassigan.  On 
one  side  of  his  bed  w^as  a  physician,  and  on  the  other 
was  Inez. 

For  several  minutes  he  lay  still,  and  peered  through 
his  swollen,  burning  lids  at  her.  His  eyes  were  so 
swollen  that  she  could  not  tell  whether  he  had 
opened  them  a  little  or  not,  and  she  sat  there  look- 
ing into  his  face;  while  he  found  gazing  up  into  her 

290 


pretty,  sympathetic  countenance  a  great  anodyne 
for  his  misery.    Finally  he  whispered,  ''Inez!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  name  she  gave  a  sli^^ht  start 
and  coloring  a  trifle,  while  her  eyes  told  him  somel 
thing  which  could  not  help  but  make  any  man  re- 
gam  his  health  rapidly,  she  said,  "Sh!  dear  boy!" 

L.  Wood,  jr.,  'i6. 


^'ADVICE  TO  THE  LOVELORN" 

My  dear  Miss  Fairfax:  (so  it  ran) 

/  '?njusi;  eighteen,  and  all  this  summer, 

Well,  I've  been  going  with  a  man, 
A  wealthy  plumber; 

But  now  Fve  seen  him  at  the  rink 

With  other  girls  where  once  he  took  me. 

Please  tell  me  do  you  really  think 
That  Percy's  shook  me? 

The  answer  talks  of  patience  —  bah! 

The  best  ''advice"  can  profit  never 
The  girl  who  finds  men  really  are 

Deceivers  ever! 

The  villain  plumber  proves  it  true; 

But  greater  men  were  false  as  Percy; 
For  Heloise  was  jilted  too, 
And  so  was  Circe. 
• 

A.  W.  H.  POWEL,  '09. 


291 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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